


Fortune's Wheel Turns as She Pleases

by andromedabennet



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Blood, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Consensual Sex, Dark, Dark Clarke Griffin, Exile, F/M, King Bellamy Blake, Kings & Queens, Murder, Murder Kink, Pregnancy Kink, Princess Clarke Griffin, Queen Clarke Griffin, Rape/Non-con Elements, Royalty, Smut, all bellarke sex is consensual, but there is a non-con scene, this whole story is about murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27031690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andromedabennet/pseuds/andromedabennet
Summary: Princess Clarke of Arcadia and the Mountainlands was born just as a comet sailed across the sky, portending a great and terrible future for her. And though her mother tried to teach her how to be a docile and amenable queen, there are a great many things that even Clarke cannot overlook in her marriage to Finn, King of Polis — the most glaring one being his willingness to kill her in order to remarry.But when she meets Bellamy Blake, the exiled king of nowhere, she realizes that the best way to stay alive in a court of wolves is to be the one with the best-planned murder.And if she is going to be a murderer, she’d like to know she’s done it as thoroughly as possible. There is no point staining her hands red otherwise.[A dark medieval murder fic. Please heed the warnings and tags].
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Clarke Griffin & John Murphy, Clarke Griffin & Raven Reyes
Comments: 60
Kudos: 226





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> I really intended to use the last week to finish the figure skating au I'm almost done with, but instead this little nugget decided to take root in my head on an otherwise normal walk to work. It is almost complete, clocking in at 20k+ words. The second half shouldn't be too far off as I only have the last 2 or 3 scenes to complete.
> 
> This story is going to be a little bit gruesome, so PLEASE heed all warnings and tags. Finn is incredibly ooc in this because it is easy to make him the villain where required. There is a non-con scene in the next chapter, and parts of it are decently graphic, so please don't read this story if that might trigger you. All sex between Bellamy and Clarke is 100% consensual. Also, since the premise of this story is about a murder, you should expect for there to be a murder.
> 
> This fic is largely based around the historical figure Isabella the She-Wolf of France and her husband Edward II. The title is a slightly reworked quote from Marlowe's play about these two. Further elements of this story were taken from the life of Catherine the Great, while others still are completely fictionalized.
> 
> I listened almost exclusively to Lorde's "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" while writing this, so feel free to do so as well if you want that vibe. Also, apparently there is an entire spotify playlist for "Medieval: Creepy / Ominous" music which I also enjoyed.

The very day that the Queen realizes she is pregnant, she sends for the astrologer.

It had been twelve long years of trying — begging with the gods or the universe to grant her a child who would live long enough to see his own first name day.

When Queen Abigail had arrived in her kingdom — young, vivacious, and free-spirited in ways that the world would beat out of her — she had been certain that doing her duty to the kingdom would be simple. She, after all, was one of seven children, four of whom were strapping young men. All she had to do was give the kingdom one son at minimum. Two would be better, just in case disease or injury took away the first, but the second was purely there as a failsafe. A few daughters wouldn’t be frowned upon either — someone had to be used to broker deals with the neighboring kingdoms, after all. That was why she had been married to King Jacob, though luckily he held genuine affection for her, and it was why every noble and royal match was made. There was no love for women in the highest circles — there was only the pursuit of further power. 

Better still, one day her son will be king. The child that she creates — if only she _could_ create him — will be sung about by the bards and lauded by the poets. His name, and hers alongside it, will cross the vellum pages of monks and scribes a thousand thousand times. Queens may often live in the shadows of their husbands, but the mother of a King… that would preserve her name for eternity.

So when it becomes obvious that she is indeed quickening, a child growing steadily inside her, she knows that she must consult with forces more powerful than she can divine.

After six miscarriages, one stillbirth, and one child who died at thirty-seven days old, she needs a son. Her husband needs an heir. Their kingdom cries for a prince.

Finally, she will deliver them one. The bells shall ring upon his arrival for a full day. No, a full _week_ if she wills it.

She is the Queen. Her word is third only to the King’s and the gods’.

“Your Grace,” the astrologer greets, bowing as he enters her private apartments in the castle.

“Gustus,” she replies curtly. “I haven’t the time for your demurring. The King and I are to be blessed again, and this time I am determined that the child shall live. I must know what you see for him.”

“Your Grace, I shall need to consult my texts. It is important that we know when the child was conceived, as well as when he is due to arrive. This will change his path.”

“Consult as you will, Gustus, but I will need regular updates about the future you see for my child. Divine from the stars, read the tea leaves, whatever it is you must do to tell me that my son will live.”

He bows again, hands clasped before him. “Of course, Your Grace. I shall return as soon as I know more.”

She gestures with her hand, allowing him to leave her presence so he can get to work.

“Oh, Gustus? I must remind you how important this work is to both His Majesty the King and to the stability of the kingdom. I urge you not to fail me.”

Gustus pictures King Jacob, amiable and kind, even after the loss of so many children. He knows it is the Queen that he should fear.

“I understand, Your Grace.”

***

When Abigail goes into labor, the whole castle is made aware.

Not because they have to be. Castles, after all, are much bigger than some peasants might realize, and the Queen’s Apartments where she’d spent her confinement are hardly a spot anyone wants to visit. Ministers and nobles usually kept working straight through whatever silly little things the women got up to, even if that silly little woman was the Queen of Arcadia.

Abby is hardly a silly little woman, but still they hold her in little esteem. She’s had no sons. She can’t do the job of a queen, let alone the job of a minister or a king.

Even still, the whole castle, from the boys in the stables all the way up to the most wealthy and influential nobles know of Abby’s labor, simply because of the _length._ She screams for two straight days, as though the sheer desperation in her cries will be enough to convince a benevolent god to let the pain end.

If only the child would come _faster._

But her son will be great, so says Gustus. He has foretold this several times, and though the auguries are a trifle too vague to truly please her, at least they seem positive.

Finally, on the third night, sweaty and hoarse from screaming, the Queen weakly pushes through the end of her ordeal. A comet streaks ominously across the sky, noted down immediately by the astrologer, and a baby’s cries join the world.

“My god, my god,” Abby weeps, overcome with her exhaustion now that the child is here at last. “Please, my baby. My baby — is he okay?”

The screaming continues from the little thing as the maids and nurses endeavor to clean its skin off.

One of Abby’s ladies looks to her, a nervous expression on her face. “Yes, Your Grace. The child… well, the child is _fine.”_ It should be a relief, but instead it feels like a deliberate prevarication.

“What is wrong?” She snaps, looking quickly from face to face. “What is wrong with my son? Someone tell me this instant. Is he well?”

The lady bows her head slightly before trying again. “Your Grace, he is well indeed, only… he is not a he.”

“What?” Her eyes dart back and forth again, finally landing on the astrologer standing at the window in the corner.

The lady continues. “Your child is a daughter, Your Grace. A little princess of Arcadia.”

Abby grasps the bedsheets so tightly that her knuckles turn white. The ladies in the room look worried — the Queen’s ordeal is not yet over, and the three day labor had taken much out of her. Too much stress could be detrimental to her humors. 

“Gustus,” she hisses. “This is not what you foretold.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I never said that the child would be a son. All of my auguries never stated a sex.”

“You _told me_ that the child would have a great destiny!” She screams, hurling a copper water pitcher in the direction of his head. It hits the wall very dramatically, luckily several feet from his person.

“And she shall,” he says with certainty. “A child born while the sun is in Scorpio. She will know much wickedness. It may exist around her, or it may indeed be _within_ her. Her life will undoubtedly be troubled. And yet the comet flashed across the sky during her birth. That portends only one thing: a great and terrible future. Whatever else your princess may be, she will certainly lead no ordinary royal life, Your Grace. Her destiny is set, as surely as the stars are set in the heavens.” 

“My baby,” she whispers, hearing the tiny cooing sounds coming from where the baby has been swaddled and laid. “My son. My sweet son, gone.” Abby’s eyes fill with tears, finally letting her grief and exhaustion catch up with her.

“Take the child to be looked after,” she says to her lady. Then, to no one in particular, perhaps just lamenting aloud, she says, “Tell the King I have failed to give him a son.”

***

The King, a loving and gentle man who truly cares for his wife despite the politicking of the court that so distresses her, is overjoyed at the birth of a healthy daughter. Indeed she is not the son that the kingdom had hoped for, but it is a child, and she is _his._

When the Queen refuses to name the princess, he names her after the most famous mythical female warrior in Arcadia’s long history: the Osleya Klark.

His daughter, Princess Clarke of Arcadia and the Mountainlands, may have a great and terrible future, but he is happy just to celebrate the day.

The bells ring around the kingdom on the King’s command. Queen Abigail does not mention it at all.

***

As the years pass, the little princess grows lovelier and bolder. Her parents both come to love her, though Abby made the poor child work for it immensely in the early days. Still, so sweet a child could turn any heart, and soon even Abby had been charmed by the little dear as much as the rest of the court.

Clarke is shy and sweet, careful with her words and liberal with her curtsies. She speaks openly to her father in private and keeps quiet in public. She becomes an avid horse rider and swordswoman, in time managing to best many of the nobility’s finest gentlemen in both.

Her father teaches her to have opinions, to read and think and argue, but also makes sure she knows when to listen and accept the advice of others. Even if she is quiet and meek in public, her eyes rove carefully over every scene. She grows to have a keen intellect, nurtured by her father’s guidance and the many tutors in her service.

Her mother teaches her to obey.

She is not the son her mother had hoped for, and she knows this. Clarke loves her mother dearly, but she has always known in her heart that she was something of a disappointment to the Queen.

So Abby teaches her to be a good woman, a good wife, a good queen. And that means a lot of staying silent and following orders. It means keeping her head down if her husband tells her to do so.

(These lessons are, in Clarke’s mind, slightly confusing. Her father never silences her mother. He never speaks over her, never gets angry, never yells. He never punishes her mother, and yet these are the things that her mother harps on constantly. Would another husband do these things if he was able? Won’t Clarke be allowed to marry a man like her father — a good king, a good husband — instead of the kind of man who will order her about like a dog? She is a princess, not a poodle.)

And yet she internalizes all these messages: be kind, be meek, be intelligent, be vigilant, be graceful, be strong, be _everything._ So many of the things she is taught seem to contradict each other, but she still attempts to obey. Her parents only want to prepare her for the future.

So she keeps up with her lessons, learning the art of being a ruler, learning to ride, learning to fight, learning etiquette, learning to stay silent and turn the other cheek, learning to disappear among the finery when a princess or queen is no longer required.

She learns and she learns and she learns.

And each day she prays that no match would ever be made. She prays that her lessons will never have a practical application.

***

It doesn’t take long to be disillusioned in her hopes — by her fourteenth birthday, it is all decided. 

She is not permitted to be her father’s heir; Arcadia’s crown always passes to a male heir. Her father’s cousin will take the throne when he dies. If her father’s cousin should die first, any sons the cousin may produce will become the heirs.

And Clarke, Arcadia’s only princess, so revered and so loved for her sweet, meek beauty, will marry Prince Finn Collins of Polis.

The marriage is to take place once she has reached age eighteen, or, if the current King of Polis dies earlier, immediately, provided that she is at least sixteen years of age.

Her mother had fought the ministers on that clause. No princess of Arcadia should be married off before sixteen. It would be barbaric.

(Marriage before sixteen does happen. Often, actually. Princesses are frequently married off as early as twelve should there be cause to do so. The families of such girls always hope that the rites of the _marriage bed_ will be saved until they come of age, and often the husbands, sometimes ten or twenty years older than their brides, will accept the need to wait. 

And still, there are stories of little thirteen year old brides giving birth, their bodies barely capable of the act. Those little girls are never the same after, something always haunted behind their eyes.)

So Clarke will wait, not to be sent off until she is sixteen at the earliest.

Every day that passes, every birthday that creeps towards her, feels like borrowed time.

She does not want to live in Polis’s capital the City of Light, or marry Prince Finn, or become a queen.

And yet, as her mother reminds her, that is what princesses are born to do.

She purses her lips upon hearing the oft-said phrase, then tips her chin up with all the dignity she can manage, curtsying to her mother before retiring to her rooms.

***

At age 16 and 311 days, Clarke receives the news that King Finley of Polis has died. It is her father who calls her to his chambers, revealing the content of a note sent to Arcadia with all due haste.

“They will be calling for your immediate departure,” her father warns, eyes downcast and tired.

“Please, father, I—” she pauses, the words sticking in her throat. She knows that she is awful for feeling this way; after nearly seventeen years of being told to do as she’s bid, she should know better than to try convincing him otherwise. And yet, he has never forced her into anything before, not if she was truly set against it. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to marry him.”

His hand covers hers on the table between them. “I’m sorry, Clarke. You know this decision was only partly mine. Our ministers are insistent on an alliance with Polis, and theirs are adamant that it happen now. With Finley dead, the coronation for his son Finn will have to follow the funeral quickly. He’s just turned twenty, untested as a ruler, and they’ll want to make sure that he has all the airs and graces of majesty even if they aren’t really there. It’s about projecting power.”

“They don’t need me for that,” she argues.

“They do. A kingdom needs a king, and a king needs a queen and heirs. You will do well there, Clarke. You have been preparing for this for a long time.”

“Please don’t send me there,” she begs, having no other recourse left to her. His word is law, and even she cannot go against it. “Please. If you love me, don’t make me go.”

His eyes squeeze shut, not able to look at her as she says those words. “I’m sorry, my darling… so sorry. It’s out of my hands. I can’t stop this any more than you can.”

“You can,” she whispers, voice breaking. “You can, please.”

“You will be a good queen, Clarke,” he says resolutely. “You will be fair and just. You will temper Finn where he is unruly, and bring further legitimacy to his reign.”

“I’m not a pawn on a chessboard!”

He turns away, looking weary. “We are all pawns on the chessboard.”

***

Clarke sets sail for Polis the day after her seventeenth birthday. Scores of people come with her: ladies to form her court, servants to help those already at the City of Light’s castle to maintain her lodgings, and a whole retinue of knights tasked with her protection. Hundreds of dresses are packed away in trunks. Jewels fill her coffers to the brim. 

She will make for a stunning bride, only to look just as lovely every day following the wedding. No one shall question that she is queen.

But beyond that, her parents have made sure that she will be a rich wife. More than just the dowry they owe, she is to have her own money, a safety net to fall back on. It is hers, not Finn’s.

She keeps her chin up as the boat leaves the harbor, eyes on Arcadia until the shore fades into the mist.

When they arrive in Polis, things are both ceremonial and completely perfunctory. A cousin of the new king greets her at the port. She is told that Finn won’t meet her until they are at the altar.

And that is how she ends up married to a stranger eight days later. A stranger with brown hair topped by a gold crown, ostentatious and heavy. The smile gracing his face is near-beaming, but his eyes are empty and lifeless.

When they proceed to their wedding feast, she sits at the high table, watching the revelry around her, surrounded by hundreds of unknown faces. Her new husband dances with the only woman who makes his eyes light up, the woman he’d allowed to plan the ceremony she’d just been married in. The woman, with her tawny hair and proud smile, is paraded in front of all the court on the King’s arm while his wife, the new Queen of Polis, watches from her seat.

He never asks her to share a dance.

Every day going forward is exactly the same. The King never comes to her bed, never shows her any affection in public or private. He scorns her in front of the court with his tawny-haired lover, basking in her pretty smiles and amorous words.

No amount of queenly dresses in Clarke’s closet make her the least bit respected by her subjects.

***

Eight months into her marriage, the King comes to her chambers unexpectedly. Though she was already dressed and prepared for the day, she feels the need to smooth down her skirts, checking for anything in the room that might be amiss.

He has never before been in her rooms, and she can’t begin to imagine why he is here.

“Your Highness,” he says, a cool look of indifference on his face. 

Not _Clarke._ Not _my wife_ or _my darling_ or _my love._

Always _Your Highness._ Always impersonal and passionless. They aren’t even estranged, because that would mean there was once something that bound them together. Instead they are strangers inhabiting the same castle. The only thing their marriage has given her is the status of queen. She is nothing else to this place, and nothing else to him.

She dips into a low curtsy. “Majesty.”

He picks up a book from one of her shelves, idly paging through it without bothering to read anything as he goes.

“I want to talk to you about your ladies,” he says, never bothering to look over at her. It is as though she isn’t worthy of his attention. The knowledge of this stings. It makes her want to scream at him, if only to force him to look at her — to make him notice.

“My ladies?” She merely asks, parroting his words back to him until he gets to the point of his visit.

“Yes. You have been here for many months now, and I think things have settled down enough for them to return home.”

“Home? But they came here with me to make their lives in Polis — to find husbands and create families here.”

“And I appreciate their willingness to make such a sacrifice for their princess, but Polis has ladies enough to attend to you. Yours may be sent home to start lives among their own people with our gratitude.”

She thinks of her ladies — Monroe, Harper, Delilah, Fox, and several others who are the only pieces of home left to her in this strange, unforgiving land. They are the only ones who bring her joy, who provide laughs and smiles in the cold castle filled with colder people.

What will her life be reduced to if they are sent away?

“Your Majesty, my ladies are happy here. They serve me faithfully and have come to see this as their homeland, just as I have. They are among their people when they are here.” The words are bitter and untrue, but she must say them. She cannot let them go without a fight.

“That is a noble way to think, wife, but they have families to return to in Arcadia. I am certain they will feel more content once they’ve returned to their own court, and you will have the chance to learn more about ours by spending time with native-born women.”

She grinds her teeth for a moment, ashamed of what she must do.

Stepping towards him, she takes his hand in hers and drops to her knees. A queen’s only strength, both in public and private, is her ability to intercede and call for mercy. Though this is certainly no life or death situation, she knows that a show of humility is the only option remaining.

“Please, Your Majesty. Please, _husband,”_ she begs. “Don’t send my ladies away. This is their home, and they are my home. I need them here — please. I have never asked anything of you.”

He shakes his hand out of her grasp, almost disgusted by her actions. “Get off the floor. You embarrass yourself. Stop begging and accept my decision — your ladies will return to Arcadia within the fortnight. Tell them to begin their preparations.”

She thinks of her husband’s tawny-haired mistress, beautiful and cruel. The woman was not so highborn to be able to marry the King, especially not when he had needed to make a foreign match, but she was certainly highborn enough to be included as one of the Queen’s ladies.

She wonders if it is her fate to spend every day, every intimate moment of her life, with her husband’s lover — the woman he parades shamelessly before all the courtiers. If she will have to smile and converse and act friendly with the woman who has taken her job.

Oh, she doesn’t much care about sleeping with the King — with the exception of the need for legitimate heirs, she could happily never be touched by him for all her life. But _she_ should be the one presiding over the court, and _she_ should be the first woman of the kingdom.

The nobles pay lip service to her — they bow and say _Your Highness_ as she passes — but they do not look to her for guidance, or judgment, or leadership. She has no role here, no power, no respect.

She picks herself up off the floor, giving her husband a curt, displeased nod. Her ladies will be sent away. This is her life now.

Clarke can’t help but wonder if this is the future her mother had feared she would have. This is why she spent so long learning to be demure.

***

As the years continue to pass, Clarke makes peace with her reality. It isn’t perfect, not by a long shot, and yet she finds the small victories where she can.

Still, there aren’t many. Most of her life is spent treading water.

Finn’s father had spent nearly a decade waging war against Azgeda to the west, slowly eating into their territory more and more. Though the war had gone on for many years, the battles were spread out over long periods of time, meaning that the losses were never debilitating. This, combined with the fact that Polis’s army was clearly superior in combat, had made the war outstandingly popular. King Finley had been an avid warrior himself with a strong tactical mind.

So it comes as a shock when, only a year and a half into his reign, the young king decides to end the war once and for all. The nobles gawp at the news, always eager to have new lands available to be gifted to worthy lords. With how well things have been steadily going, they’d assumed it was only a matter of time before Azgeda became a vassal kingdom to Polis, or perhaps ceased to exist entirely.

The move is looked at unfavorably by all. Even the peasants had always been proud of the former king’s efforts on behalf of the kingdom. They are as surprised and confused as anyone to hear of the war’s abrupt end.

It is made all the worse when, in peace talks that should feel more like an Azgedan surrender, Finn chooses to give back much of the land that had been gained over the years. He tells his ministers it is because he wants to pursue an alliance with his neighbors, something he can only hope to succeed at if they start with no animosity, and yet the people from all of Polis’s social classes are enraged by this news.

People had fought and died for that land, year after year. They had stood by King Finley because he’d promised a better future for Polis: more land for the nobles, and more land to work for the farmers. They can’t fathom just _giving it back_ like it hadn’t mattered at all.

And yet, just as the King celebrates his second year on the throne, the treaty is signed. Somehow, Azgeda has just won the war that they also lost, and the people of Polis won’t soon forget it.

***

In the midst of their war troubles, the nobles begin to look at Finn with less cheer than they once had. The relationship between nobles and king is continually a tenuous one — everyone always wants more, feels they _deserve_ more, that maybe _they_ should be king — and yet a good ruler finds ways to keep his vassals in line without going to war with them. He might give them the power they desire, but always in a way that keeps them tethered to him and his mercy. It’s a delicate art, a balancing act that any monarch must learn quickly. It is smarter to stop rebellions from ever starting than to try to beat every upstart noble who thinks himself king.

And yet Finn acts crassly, self-assured as he flaunts himself to the court. He does not care that the nobles are mad about the Azgeda affair, and he does not care if they find him wanting as a ruler. He dances and drinks and flaunts his mistress, and all the while his steadfast queen sits on her throne at the revels, face stoic and unmoved.

As grumblings about the king grow quietly in the shadows, people become steadily less enamored by the tawny-haired woman as well. Before, she was their ticket to His Majesty — if you could only get her to agree to your plight, she might whisper your words to him across feathered pillows in the evening. But now, with interest in working with the king waning, more members of the court begin making themselves available to _Clarke._

Quickly a little court springs up around her, made up of disgruntled minor nobles and councilmen. The most important members of court keep themselves carefully aligned with the King, whether because they truly think they could reform him or because they simply worry about keeping their heads, she doesn’t know. But the names at court that carry less value begin to visit her private sitting rooms in the afternoons. It’s all very casual — audiences with their queen, as any respectful nobleman or woman might attend. But it is new, and impossible to miss for its timing.

She knows, oh she _knows,_ that they are not her friends — they are nothing more than vultures looking for the next place that will provide for their supper. And yet, with each person who expresses a desire for her friendship, she feels a little more powerful. Finally, _finally_ they’re recognizing her as she rightly deserves — as a player in the chess game they live in.

And yet no amount of friends will give her the ear of the King. He does not care that she is no longer isolated — does not care that she is finally a Queen by deed rather than word alone. He is still the ultimate authority in the kingdom, and there is little she can do to sway that.

Still, it makes her third year as queen a little less lonely, even if her allies are not people she can put any real trust in.

Well, all but two cannot be trusted. Two women of the court, a bit older than her young and irritating ladies in waiting, strike up a friendship with her, covertly bringing her information about the plots of those around them. Lady Charmaine Diyoza and Lady Indra, Duchess of the Westwoods, are both widows from powerful families. The deaths of their respective husbands have provided them with more autonomy in the rigid social structure of the world than most women have. As such, Clarke places much of her trust in their word, as well as their discretion.

***

Several months into her fourth year in Polis, Clarke receives a letter from home. She opens it eagerly, always pleased to have news from Arcadia after so long away. She can hardly remember the heat of the Arcadian sun on a warm summer’s day. So much of her past is now a blur of vibrant color and simplicity. 

Nothing in her life has been simple since moving away.

Her face quickly loses its smile as she reads the letter. Short and perfunctory, it only says:

_Clarke,_

_I’m sorry to be writing with such terrible news, but your mother passed this morning after a short battle with an unknown illness._

_As the disease is not contagious, I am asking that you be recalled to Arcadia to attend the funeral, and so that we may have a few weeks together again._

_Please send word of when we can expect to see you._

_I love you, darling._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Jacob Rex_

Tears fill her eyes as she reads over the note a second time, and then a third. Nothing changes with each subsequent rereading, and yet she can’t help but wish it would. If only the letters could rearrange themselves to bring happier tidings from home.

Still, she carries the note to her husband, who has had a similar, if more formal, letter to announce the Arcadian Queen’s passing. Though her father has only _requested_ that she return for a few weeks, they both recognize it for what it is: a diplomatic order. Her marriage to Finn forged an alliance between the two kings, and it wouldn’t do to displease Arcadia now.

Despite the horrible circumstances, she is pleased that Finn will not be able to deny her the right to travel. She has never been permitted to leave the court before, but now he does not have the power to stop her.

The night before she is set to leave, she stops outside his door, prepared to knock and offer a perfunctory goodbye to her husband.

Before she gets the chance, she hears Finn speaking with his friend Dax. Through the gap in the door, she watches the conversation.

“If only it had been her father instead!” He says, clearly a few cups in already.

“What good would that do you? Then you’d have to make peace with some upstart cousin of the king’s instead.”

“My treaty is with Jacob, and as long as he lives, I can never annul my marriage without the threat of war. He would never stand to have Clarke so disrespected. But when he dies, she can be sent off to a nunnery and I can remarry.”

Clarke gasps quietly from the other side of the door, covering her mouth in an attempt to not draw their attention her way. 

“She won’t like to hear that she’s being sent off.”

“And what will she do to stop me? Get on her knees and beg that I keep her? No, once her father no longer sits on the Arcadian throne, I will be free to do with her as I will.”

“And if she does fight back?” Dax asks, a dark look in his eyes. The smirk on his face makes her feel sick.

Finn laughs easily, as though they are discussing a recent joust or the next May Day festival. 

“We both know there are other ways to dispose of those who overstay their welcome. After all, what good is being king if I cannot do as do what pleases me?”

She backs away quickly from the door.

The next day, she avoids her husband right up to the moment that she is safely on the boat to her homeland.

Clarke isn’t sure how she’ll do it, but she does not want to go back.

***

The funeral is long and sad, tears in the church and tears from the people in the streets who had formed an attachment to their queen. She hadn’t been the most affectionate woman to the people who knew her intimately, but she had always given alms to the poor and had helped to intercede on their behalf to the king.

Her father cannot attend the ceremony, as custom dictates. It is treason for anyone to picture, even just in their minds, the death of the King. Of course, everyone does it anyway, and often in completely innocent ways — nobles and council members need to plan for what happens if the worst should occur. Ordinary men and women wonder what will become of their farms or trades if the next king is better than the present one… or if he is worse.

Still, kings are not permitted to attend funerals so as to not tempt anyone into treasonous thoughts, and thus Clarke is the chief mourner at her mother’s casket.

The whole time, she thinks about her mother’s fears for her. Abby had been so set on having a boy, and so afraid when it hadn’t come to pass. Maybe this is what she’d seen — this horrible half-life she lives only at the grace of her husband’s mercy.

One day he will send her off to a nunnery, or perhaps kill her outright, in order to marry his mistress. She had already given him one daughter, and it is only a matter of time before he wants to get a legitimate heir on her.

When her father does eventually die, she will be out of options. There will be no one left with enough power to intercede on her behalf. No cousin of hers, new to the throne of Arcadia, will go to war for her unless he is foolhardy. She cannot rely on that small possibility.

And yet… her father is still alive _now_ — still more than capable of standing behind her in a way that might frighten Finn just enough to do as she asks.

When she returns home, she begins planning, and two days hence presents her plans to her father.

Jacob only looks at her with displeasure when she relays the realities of her life in Polis to him. Her letters home had always been sanitized, knowing that in all likelihood Finn had people spying on her correspondence. It comes as an obvious shock then to learn just how messy her unconsummated marriage has become.

He agrees to her plan, though he warns her it may not end in her favor. Still, it is the only option left that she can see.

She sends a letter to Finn as soon as she can.

_My loving husband,_

_Though I have come to love Polis as my home, I must express to you that I am wary to return so soon as originally planned. Having heard of all that goes on in our little court across the water, my father is keen to have more time with me while I’m available to him._

_My Lord, I must entreat you to send away your favorite before I return. Until she is gone — to Azgeda or Tondisi, perhaps, but certainly nowhere in Polis — I will remain on Arcadian soil. Her place by your side has put me in danger from those who think that I would be an easy target without your favor. I cannot return without the assurance of my safety, and my father won’t hear of my attempting to do so._

_The King my father urges you to remember the vows you spoke to me four years ago, and the treaty bound together by our union._

_Your devoted servant and most obedient wife,_

_Clarke, Queen of Polis_

She sends the letter, a little thrill of rebellion going through her once it has been dispatched. 

It is all diplomatic nonsense, pleasantries so thick they have become outright lies, and yet the message is clear: if his mistress is not sent away for good, Clarke will not return to Polis. Her father will support her in this action, and their peace will hang in the balance. His courtiers will blame him for not acquiescing, rather than blaming his intransigent wife. She has backed him into a corner of his own creation.

And though the threat from others that she writes about is, as far as she knows, fictional, the threat itself is real, and they both know it. As long as his mistress is waiting in the wings, Clarke is in danger.

It won’t solve all her problems — in the long run, it may create more problems than she is truly prepared for. And yet, if he is so keen to rid himself of Clarke in order to remarry, then forcing away his mistress is the first step towards securing her own future. She may not desire her husband’s love, but she will have his respect.

She does not hear from Finn for many weeks, but Diyoza and Indra write of his explosive anger at her actions. There may not be a resolution for some time, and she is content in the meanwhile to wait. 

Arcadia’s weather was always more amenable to her, anyhow.

***

As the weeks turn to months without an answer from her husband, she begins to accept her temporary relocation may last longer than expected. 

Indra writes that Finn’s ministers, frequently exasperated by the headstrong young king, try daily to persuade him to send away his mistress. It does not look good to have the kingdom’s queen hiding herself away for her own protection, and they all know it. Each week that passes without a resolution to the problem lowers Finn in everyone’s esteem, damaging both his domestic policies and his foreign relations.

By now, everyone in the Arcadian court knows of her plight, whispering about it as she enters any room. It is the hottest gossip to come out of Polis in some time, and she knows the Arcadians revel in the drama of it all.

She meets many new people while she is home, being introduced to ministers who have arrived to replace those who have retired and women who have come to court to find suitable husbands. There always seems to be a new introduction to make, another stranger keen to meet Arcadia’s princess and the queen behind the catfight in Polis.

Usually she meets these people in formal settings — dinners or formal meetings where her father makes the necessary introductions. But occasionally someone finds her in an empty corridor and makes their presence known. It isn’t the done thing, but some people value the potential acquaintance over the social gaff involved in an unsanctioned first meeting. She is used to this by now. 

Still, she isn’t quite prepared for her first meeting with the curly haired stranger she stumbles upon one evening, far away from the feast taking place in the banqueting hall.

“Your Grace,” the man says, bowing deeply. The look on his face makes the action feel more like a mockery than a sign of respect. Certainly he is no supplicant.

“You honor me, sir, and yet in Polis the Queen is referred to as _Your Highness_ , not _Your Grace.”_

“Deepest apologies, _Your Highness._ I have been away from home for quite a long time, and Arcadian customs have become my own.”

“You are from Polis?” She asks, quirking an eyebrow.

He shakes his head once, warm eyes never leaving hers. “Tondisi, actually. But I spent quite a lot of my childhood between the two kingdoms.”

Tondisi is Polis’s neighbor to the north, and though they were near-constantly at war, there was also quite a lot of overlap in custom as land routinely changes hands on the borders.

She squints at him, suddenly feeling like she should recognize him.

“You’ve caught me unawares, sir. I feel certain that yours is a name I would be familiar with, and yet I have no recollection of meeting you in the past, so I cannot hazard a guess. Please, enlighten me.”

He steps closer, taking her hand in his own. His eyes still on hers, he places a kiss on her signet ring.

“Bellamy Blake, Your Highness. At your service.”

The little gasp of air she pulls in does not go unnoticed in the small space left between them.

“The Rebel King?” She asks, though it’s more a statement than a question. She knows his name just as she had suspected she might. A boy who came to the throne as a young child under the guise of a regency. His uncle the regent quickly named himself King, but before he could make his nephew ‘disappear’, Bellamy was hidden away by sympathizers. First in Polis and then, it seems, in Arcadia. He has spent the better part of his life trying to win over the support of kings, lords, and armies to his cause so that he may reclaim his throne.

“The Exile King, more like. Although I suppose in _that_ we are the same.”

“I’m not an exiled queen,” she argues hotly, pulling her hand out of his. “I’m bargaining.”

“It’s a smart move, holding yourself hostage,” he says, stepping around her slowly in a circle as a vulture might, sizing her up as his next meal. “But when it works, you’ll have to know what smart move to make next.”

“I do,” she says petulantly, staring resolutely forward.

“Do you?”

“Of course I do.”

(She doesn’t).

From his place behind her, he drags one single finger down the column of her neck and across her shoulder until it meets the edge of her gown.

“You could come to my rooms tonight and get some advice.”

She presses her lips together tightly, not wanting to do anything that might weaken her position. She will not lean into his touch. She will not ask for more. She will stand tall and leave the room with her dignity.

“I should only like to take advice from men who still sit on their thrones,” she bites out.

He laughs, circling again until he is in front of her once more.

“Unless they have won their thrones in battle, they are the worst people to take advice from. They know nothing of the strategy involved in playing the long game.”

“And, pray tell, what step is _this_ in your long game?”

He smirks. “I’m recalculating.”

“Have your odds shifted so drastically over the course of one conversation?”

“My odds? No, I shouldn’t think they’re so very different at the moment, though I’d wager a few new opportunities have opened up to me if I can figure out the right steps to take. But your odds… those are the interesting ones. Yes, I think your odds have increased quite a lot since meeting me.”

“My odds for what?”

He steps in again, tucking a stray curl of hair behind her ear so he can whisper one word against it.

“Everything.”

***

She doesn’t want to be drawn in by this man — a rebel king, exiled from his own lands and throne by a scheming uncle. More than likely he will die in his exile after many fruitless years spent planning wars that will never come to pass. He is of no use to her, an option already dead in the water.

And yet she aches to go to his room — to know what his plans are, to know what he thinks she could become. 

And maybe, if she’s lucky, to feel his skin brush against hers again.

She has been married for four years, now a woman of twenty-one, and still she remains a virgin. Finn cares only for his mistress, and nothing for Clarke’s pride.

The same pride smarts at the idea of going to Bellamy, throwing herself so wantonly at such a self-assured rogue, but her loneliness is the only thing that can overpower her ego. She hasn’t felt the kind touch of a friend in so long, and there have been no romantic touches at all.

For all that she doesn’t like this Bellamy Blake, over-confident and headstrong, she can’t get his face and his lips and his _fingers_ out of her mind. They’d trailed so temptingly down her neck, and she can’t help but imagine what else they could do.

The rest of the evening is spent alone in her room, feeling tense and annoyed at herself. She shouldn’t want this — not when it’s so imprudent. But every moment of her life has been spent carefully toeing the line, never wanting to appear too brash or too strong or too weak or too Clarke.

Just this once, someone _wants_ her. She is desirable. There is some kind of power in that, even if she is the only one who can feel it. No one has ever expressed an interest in her like this before, far too concerned about her father or her husband to consider crossing them.

And she wants so desperately to not be alone for once. To feel close to someone, even if it’s just for a night. Four years isolated away in Polis with no real love has starved her for anything she can get.

It may not be the smartest decision, but those have never done her much good anyway.

She creeps through the hallways of her father’s castle that night, sneaking quietly to where she knows Bellamy’s chambers are.

The door creaks as she opens it just wide enough to slip through the crack. The room is bathed in light from a still-burning fire, its occupant clearly not intending to sleep any time soon.

He looks up at the noise before a smug smile graces his stupid face.

“Your Highness, fancy seeing you here at so late an hour.”

She clenches her jaw. For all that she came here tonight knowing what he would make of it, she doesn’t want to deal with his superiority.

“I believe I was invited.”

“Of course,” he says magnanimously. He stands from his desk, coming slowly towards her like he has all the time in the world, a prowling animal who has already found its prey. “How can I be of service to you this evening?”

His eyes twinkle at the words, and she draws her hands into two tight fists at her sides.

“I want to know what my next move is.”

“Is that so?” He asks, stopping in front of her so he can begin removing the pins that hold her hair in place. As she wasn’t accepting formal visitors today, it hadn’t been styled with the typical rigidity, and thus tumbles around her shoulders with only a few strategic motions.

“You said I could have everything,” she says arily, overwhelmed as his mouth moves closer to her neck, breathing lightly against her skin. When his lips touch down to the place where neck meets shoulder, she has to stop her sentence and regroup. “If I just… just knew the right moves.”

“That’s true,” he says, lips tracing up along her jawline. His hand clasps around hers and draws it up to his chest, holding it there. Of her own volition, the other hand quickly follows suit, tracing over his shirt and around his back in an attempt to pull him closer.

“And you know what those moves are?” Her voice is breathy, drawn in too deep by him. She wants more. She wants everything that he has foolishly promised her.

He kisses along her neck, stopping to suck at the skin occasionally. His mouth ascends until he reaches the corner of her lips, where he unceremoniously stops.

“Oh, I know the right moves, Your Highness.”

She clenches her fingers in his shirt at the words. Her head turns towards his lips in an attempt to kiss him, but he moves with her, keeping his lips tantalizingly out of reach. 

Frustrated, she says, “And will you not show them to me?”

He draws one of her hands up to his mouth, pulling the tip of her pinky finger into his mouth. His tongue swirls around it slowly as he keeps his eyes on her, and she feels her whole body flush with heat.

He continues to play with her fingers as he asks, “Does your husband touch you, Highness?”

Breaking eye contact so that she can lower her gaze, she gives no answer.

“Never?” He asks softly, drawing her attention back to him with a finger under her chin. “And with a bride so lovely as you?”

She squares her jaw, suddenly feeling less meek. “Never, _Your Grace._ And yet I suppose you’re up to the task?”

He laughs at her impetuousness, and maybe a little at the use of his title as well.

“I’m always up for a challenge, my lady. Your suit seems a particularly interesting one.”

She isn’t sure if he means her status in her kingdom or her status as a virgin, but before she can ask, he pushes her up against the wall, kissing her soundly.

She can count on one hand the number of kisses she’s had, and yet this one is like none of the others. It’s fast — all lips and teeth and passion and heat. She hardly knows what to do with herself, and yet her body reacts instinctively, pressing herself up against him as much as possible, fingers buried in his hair and curled into his shirt. 

Holding him to her; holding him so he won’t leave.

Soon enough, he tugs her away from the wall, shifting them towards the bed as he works on the laces holding her dress together over her shift. As pieces of the garment are thrown away bit by bit, her breathing grows increasingly erratic. His lips carefully map out each tract of skin he uncovers along the way.

It must take many careful minutes, and yet it seems like no time at all has passed when suddenly she is naked before him, laid out on his bed like the prize from a hunt.

His grin is rapacious as he kisses up her inner thigh, hungry and impatient, but there is something in his eyes that gives her the strength to continue. Whatever it is, she knows in her heart that he would stop if she asked.

That’s the exact reason why she won’t.

“What do you want, Clarke?” He asks, lips poised just over her aching cunt. She can feel the heat that has amassed there, waiting for anything that will finally set her off.

She kicks against him. “I want you to call me Highness.”

He smirks up at her, tracing a finger teasingly along her folds. “Of course. You’re so wet for me, _Your Highness.”_

He lets one nail drag over her clit, making her nearly jump out of her skin.

“Do you like that, _Highness?”_ He asks, breath warm against her pussy as he stops his mouth just shy of where she needs him.

She hooks her foot around his back, trying to pull him in all the way, but he holds her off, tutting lightly like a displeased tutor.

“It seems like someone has forgotten her courtly manners. Good queens aren’t quite so openly ravenous.”

“Bellamy,” she groans out. “Make your next move. I command you to do so _now.”_

He laughs against her clit, the vibrations making another gush of liquid pool at her center. 

“I’m not your subject, Highness. And yet, never let it be said that I am a man who disobeys orders.”

As he dives in, taking her clit into his mouth to suck on it, she throws her head back. The last coherent thought she manages is to laugh at the idea that he’s the servant here, blindly following commands. As though Bellamy Blake doesn’t have complete and utter control over this situation. She is entirely at his mercy.

His fingers find her opening, sinking first one and then two in so that he can gently stretch her out. He tries to go slow, tries to draw out the pleasure while minimizing the pain, but she’ll have none of it. Her hips thrust against his face and fingers, begging him to increase the speed. It takes embarrassingly little effort on his part to send her over the edge, and she’s there within mere minutes.

She keens as she comes, feeling years of pent up tension leaving her shoulders, if only for a few glorious moments.

He runs his tongue leisurely along her folds, collecting her taste in his mouth. Her body, hypersensitive in the aftermath of her pleasure, jerks against him.

“Bellamy,” she groans out, tugging uselessly on the loose collar of his white undershirt.

He places a gentle kiss against cunt, sweet and soft in a way that makes her feel like she’s walked into flames. Her husband need not burn her at the stake if only Bellamy Blake continues.

“What, Highness? How can I be of service?” He never takes his eyes off her center as he asks, fingers trailing along her thighs all the while. It is only after he has spoken that his eyes dart up to her face, a teasing gleam in them.

She scrunches the fabric of his shirt in her grasp, trying again to pull him closer. “Come _here,_ sir,” she orders, voice as stern as she can make it in the wake of something both so pleasing and so intimate.

She will demand more of him sexually and not feel ashamed of the desire he evokes, but she will not let him see how affected she is to be this close with someone. It would not do to grow attached. He is willing to be used, and she will use him. That is the only connection they can have.

He crawls up her body, placing kisses judiciously all the way up. At her nipples, he stops to take first one and then the other into his mouth, tongue circling around them until they are as hard as the pebbles on the Arcadian beaches.

Finally, as he kisses hotly up the column of her throat, he asks brokenly, “What need have you of me, my lady?” His hand tangles in the hair at the base of her neck, reminding her of the power he has over this whole situation.

It would be maddening, how subtly domineering he is, if it wasn’t also making her heart race in her chest to feel the way he can so easily overpower her. She is clay in his hands, ready to be molded into something stronger.

“I want you to tell me how you intend to give me everything,” she pants out against the lips hovering just above hers. She brings her hand up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye. Pulling him down, she draws him into a rough kiss, angry and passionate.

She doesn’t even know who she is angry at — her husband, this rebel king, her family, the universe. There are so many options. But the anger rages through her, turning itself into heat and desire, and that is something that she finally understands.

“And then,” she continues, pulling back to look him in the eye, “I want you to take me.”

His hand drifts down to her breast again, thumb idly flicking her nipple back and forth. The motion, so small and inconsequential, sends shocks down to her center. Her empty cunt clenches, aching to finally be filled.

“You want me to steal the virginity of a queen?” He asks. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes.”

His hand wanders down, coming to rest at her clit. He presses down on it lightly but makes no further movements. Desperate for sensation, she rocks her hips against him as far as she can, but she knows it won’t be enough.

“Say it then.”

She moans, thrusting her hips against him again.

“Do it,” she demands, words angry and biting. “Fuck me. I order you to fuck me.”

He smiles at her, looking every inch the scoundrel. “It would be my absolute pleasure.”

He strips down quickly, and she can’t help but feel glad that he is clearly as eager as she, even if he is better at playing it off.

Unabashedly, she watches as his clothing is removed, curious at what is hidden beneath. She knows much about the importance of sex and yet very little of the actual mechanics. Only whisperings gleaned from her ladies have given her any indication of what a man looks like nude.

Bellamy Blake, exiled king of Tondisi, is nothing like she might’ve pictured. He is all golden lines, sharp edges carved with precision accuracy by the finest sculptors. His cock (for she _has_ heard the giggling of newly married women about men’s cocks) is long and curved, pointing out at her like it has a mind of its own — like it is as hungry for her as she had hoped he would be.

Once he is as bare as she, he stalks back over to her with unadulterated hunger in his eyes.

When his cock is nestled against her, his tip already wet from her need, he whispers against her jaw, “Say it again.”

“Fuck me,” she breathes out. “Fuck me until there is nothing else. Fuck me until I am sore and broken, until I beg you to stop.”

His hips begin to push forward slowly, taking his time as he enters her. She can feel the slow, agonizing way that her body opens around him, stretching to accommodate his size.

“Fuck me—” she gasps out, voice thready, “—until I blur away at the edges.”

Her hands clench around the sides of his torso as he bottoms out inside of her, coming to a stop so that she can adjust. His hand goes to her face, pulling her bottom lip from between her teeth so that he can kiss her soundly.

“I can do that, Highness. I can make you disappear for as long as you like while you lose yourself to pleasure. I can make you lesser, make you small.”

She groans at his words, hips shifting as she wraps her legs around him. She wants him to move, wants to feel the drag of his cock within her.

“And then,” he says, canting his hips slowly at first, dragging an unearthly sound from her throat. “I will do all that I can to make you so much _bigger._ So much _more.”_ The words come out breathy and low, drawn from deep in his chest as he speaks between rabid kisses.

“I want it,” she chokes out, moving one hand to cradle his neck, keeping his mouth pressed to hers, and the other to her own breast. “The ‘everything’ you’ve promised me — I want it. You will find a way to give it to me.”

He speeds up, fingers dancing along her clit as he ruts into her. She can feel the sweat between them, glistening along their naked forms as he drives them faster. The sounds of their coupling are obscene, only serving to make the twisting, tightening feeling in her belly more pronounced.

She is so close — seconds from succumbing to the burning inside her. The need seers her skin, singeing her fingertips as they curl into his dark hair. With her other hand, she desperately plucks at her nipple before giving it a sharp twist. Her breath catches with the dark sensation that runs through her.

He lifts her thighs until they are nearly pressed to her chest, allowing his cock to hit a place that has her seeing the stars.

“I know exactly how to give it to you,” he says, ramming himself into her as he continues to drag along that spot. Between this and the circles he is still frantically drawing on her clit, she begins to come apart at the seams. Her back bows off the bed, cunt pulsing around him as she lets out a ragged whine that only manages not to be a scream because of her fear that it will lead to someone discovering them.

“Fuck,” she says between gritted teeth, walls fluttering around him as he speeds up towards his own release. _“Fuck.”_

He buries his face against her neck, thrusts becoming erratic. Then, quicker than she could’ve imagined while still swimming in the aftershocks of her orgasm, he pulls himself free of her, hand twisting around his cock to pump it once, twice, three times before his cum spurts out onto her belly.

He lets out a broken little groan, holding himself up above her only barely. She looks up at him innocently, dragging her fingers through the sticky cum coating her skin. 

He watches tranfixed as she raises a finger to her mouth, curious enough to dart her tongue out and taste him. It’s warm and a little bitter, but she finds she doesn’t mind it overmuch. Drawing each finger into her mouth in turn, she cleans them off. His eyes glaze over at the sight.

Finally he manages to drag his eyes away from what she knows is flagrant and unbecoming promiscuity on her part, removing himself from the bed in order to wet a towel in the bowl of water kept on his table.

When he returns, he wipes between her legs and over her stomach, ridding her of both their essences. As he washes away his own cum, he laughs lightly, saying “Can’t have the virgin queen getting pregnant. That would certainly raise eyebrows.”

“Absolutely not,” she replies, hardly paying any attention to either of their words as she watches the slow and gentle motions of his hands.

When her skin is clean, he picks her shift up from the floor, easing it over her arms and head so that it covers her again. He seems unabashed in his nudity, walking around the room with all the ease of a man who is certain of his own charms, but she is happy to have some small coverage again.

It’s not that the aftermath is _awkward,_ it’s just that she doesn’t know what comes next in the way that she had when things were moving towards something inevitable. For all that she has just shared of herself with this man, she doesn’t know him.

“I should go,” she says quietly into the still air of the room.

“No,” he retorts quickly, moving towards her as though to force her to sit again. “Stay a while, if you will. I’ll make you tea.”

“Tea?” She is not terribly in the mood for a hot drink after so much sweating.

“For the—” he motions vaguely at her person. “To be certain that you won’t find yourself with child.”

“There’s still a chance?” She asks, alarmed at this news. He did not finish inside of her, and naively she had assumed that would be enough.

“A much smaller chance, but yes. The tea should do away with any lingering threat.”

She stays in his bed until the tea is made, which he then bids her to drink from her place against his headboard. It makes her feel like an invalid to be so doted upon — despite having dozens of servants, nobody seems to keep such a keen eye on her wellbeing as he is now.

She wants to say that she can manage herself, as she always has, but there is something intoxicating about the idea of having someone take care of her. Not even because he has to, for it certainly isn’t his job to serve her, but merely because he desires to do so.

So she lets him fuss, at least a little.

And it’s interesting, from a purely observational standpoint, to see him go from seductive corruptor of innocent virgins to someone who is only concerned with her comfort.

“Will you come back?” He asks, running a hand along her long, unbound hair. “Not tomorrow — that’s too soon. But the next night perhaps.”

“Why?” She can’t help but ask with a curious sort of confusion. He could deflower any maiden in this castle, steal away whichever bride he chooses from her unsuspecting husband. The thrill of claiming a queen is surely in the conquest, and she has allowed herself to be thoroughly conquered. For better or worse, he no longer has need of her. She arches her eyebrow at him primly as she raises the cooling remains of the tea to her lips. “Will you fuck me again? If I command you to do so?” She gives her words the full weight of their vulgarity, if only to see how he will react.

He squints his eyes at her, as though trying to parse out what is hidden underneath her skin. He has touched places no other on earth has been privy to, and yet there is still so much that he is incapable of knowing. Finally, as though he is content with what he does manage to see, he leans forward to press a warm kiss against the center of her forehead.

“I do as my queen orders.”

“I thought you said I am not your queen.”

He smiles. “Semantics. But more importantly than that, you must return so we can begin planning. I’ve promised you everything, and I intend to deliver. The chess match is stacked further in your favor than perhaps you realize.”

She bites her lips at these words, wondering exactly how much he can promise her, and how much of it he’s good for.

“Then I shall return. The night after next, so I can tell you the situation in Polis and what I have to work with.”

He nods, taking her empty cup and placing it on the side table. Then, from his seat next to her on the bed, he looks over at her with a surprisingly open expression.

“But if you betray me, Bellamy Blake, King of Nowhere,” she says, voice scathing, “My father will order your execution only _after_ I have removed your balls from your body and stuffed them down your throat.”

He laughs a little too loudly, looking at her with a newfound appreciation. She is not meek, and it is high time he understands that.

“You are a born conspirator.” Then, he presses his lips to the back of her hand before flipping it over to leave a lingering kiss at the center of her palm. “Two days hence, Your Highness.”


	2. Act II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning if you missed it last time, this chapter includes what I'd consider to be fairly graphic marital rape scenes, though Clarke doesn't have the words to call it that in context.
> 
> Also... ya know, there's a murder.
> 
> All sex between Bellarke is consensual.

She spends the next several weeks traipsing around the castle by day, playing the role of a bereaved queen who misses her mother and her distant, unfaithful husband. At night, she is every inch the traitor, plotting with the man who may one day cause her head to reside on a pike.

The trouble is, Bellamy’s plot makes _sense,_ which makes it difficult to turn her back on.

If she was wiser, she would remove herself from his company — find an excuse to have her father send him away from court, or force him to leave Arcadia entirely. Bellamy Blake is a poison to her if she intends to live any semblance of a peaceful life. 

Her husband may be awful — may want to annul their marriage for his mistress or get rid of Clarke by other means — but there are tactics to keep herself by his side. Politics are often more powerful than passion, and even his love for this girl might not be enough to do away with the alliance Clarke provides.

This plan will be the ruination of any hope for reconciliation. If she follows it, if she succumbs to the seductive ideas it puts in her mind, then she will never be able to turn back. She will be the usurper, the traitor, and maybe even the _harlot._

But she wants it anyway. God, she wants it.

If power corrupts, then she thinks she might be ready to give herself over. She will make a sacrificial lamb of her own innocence to bring about better days.

It doesn’t help that the mouth whispering malevolence into her ears can just as easily press kisses — hundreds, _millions_ — against her skin until she is left starving for more. She is utterly undone by him.

Every night after they plot, he takes his time destroying her, pulling her apart thread by thread until she can only send her little whimpers to the unforgiving heavens.

She bites at her lips until they bleed. She clutches at his bedsheets until the fabric warps. She may not survive this storm in the shape of a man.

And for all this, for all that he is the blight that will kill her, he will spend the rest of each night holding her tenderly until she is forced to return to her chambers. He will curl her honeyed hair around a finger, or trace the shell of her ear, or kiss the tip of her nose, and she feels another piece of herself crumbling away.

Only this kind of destruction is more worrying, more dangerous. To corrupt her innocence is one thing, and she is prepared for this. But increasingly she feels him burrowing under her skin, snaking closer and closer to the place yet untouched. For all that she loves people in a general kind of way, she has never let her heart be taken by another.

She is afraid he wants it.

And she is equally afraid that she will not be able to deny him.

But every time they meet, she kisses him a little longer as they lay in bed. She holds a little tighter to him in the aftermath of their passion. She tarries a little later into the night, even knowing that it only takes being caught once to undo everything they are working towards.

And still she plays with fire, knowing that she needs it — needs him — to stay warm.

***

Eventually, after a whole season away from her new kingdom, the letter arrives from the King asking for her return and announcing the departure of ‘their dear friend’ to Azgeda.

No flowery language can hide the fact that this is a command, not a request.

She is not pleased to be going home. For all that she has planned every moment of what happens next, a part of her had hoped she might stay in Arcadia forever, wiling away the days in the summer splendor of her homeland.

But that is not to be, and now she has a mission to accomplish.

“Will you be okay?” He asks the night before her departure, sitting on the floor behind the copper washing tub she is naked in to help her clean her hair. His hands run so delicately, and soothingly through the wet strands.

She relaxes her neck back, allowing him to tend to her. She might’ve done it herself, but it seemed he longed for the intimacy that caring for her provides.

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “We can only plan for the contingencies that we can imagine. Perhaps he will do something entirely unexpected.”

“But you know what to do if you need me.” The words are a statement, though he is prompting her for the correct answer.

“If I need your _armies,_ I am to get a discrete message to Nathan Miller, the knight in Finn’s guard who is secretly in your employ. If I do not require armies, then you cannot help me.”

He pours a pitcher of clean water over her hair, rinsing out the soaps and perfumes. 

“If you need me, in _any_ capacity, you get a message to Miller, and I will come.”

“You are a knight, sir, not some assassin who sneaks about in the night. You cannot reach me if required unless you’re intending to spend months in a prolonged siege first. As that is not the plan, you will need to accept that your ability to help me is limited.”

“Clarke,” he says, voice cracking as he moves to her side and places a palm on her reddened cheek. “I can’t send you back unless I know you will be okay.”

She turns her head, kissing his hand gently as she stares up at him. It is her desire, just this once, to be honest with him. To not hide behind her fears. If things go wrong before they even truly start, she may never see him again.

“My darling,” she whispers. “I will be as well as I am able to be under the circumstances. And then, when your feet touch the Polis soils, I will be all the better.”

He kisses her forehead, holding his lips there as though to stay in the moment for as long as possible.

“Have courage,” he murmurs. Though he says the words to her, she feels certain he is the one who needed to hear them.

“You’ve shown me the right moves, Bellamy. The plan is good. You need to trust me to set it in motion.”

“I do trust you. I only hope that you will protect yourself in the process.”

When he kisses her, so loving and so poisonous, she cannot help but climb out of the tub and into his lap. She drips all over him, until finally there are no clothes left on which to drip.

As they lay entwined later, moon shining over the early morning sky, she prepares herself to leave. Before she can move, he places a kiss on the back of her shoulder, whispering only, “May we meet again.”

Turning around to face him, she traces along his hairline and repeats the words.

It will be the last loving touch she feels for many months.

The boat leaves the port in the morning, dragging her away from safety.

***

When she arrives in Polis, her husband does not greet her at the docks, or at the gates, or in the palace. By the time she reaches her rooms, desiring nothing more than a bath, a meal, and a long rest, she wonders if she will see him at all. 

Perhaps his petty anger will keep him away from her for a long, long time. Her refusal to come home had lost him his mistress, and maybe that is enough for him to hate the sight of her.

She can work with that eventuality. Her husband does not need to _like_ her, so long as he does not get rid of her. 

It takes three days before she sees Finn again, and even then it is only because she is forced to a court event that has them sitting prettily on their thrones in front of all the attendees.

“Clarke,” he says gruffly, making no move towards any pretense of civility, even in front of so many watchful eyes. He does not stand from his throne at her entrance, does not kiss her hand, does not even bother making eye contact.

“Your Majesty,” she returns, making the cursory little curtsy before seating herself beside him.

They do not speak for the rest of the afternoon.

When the dancing begins, Clarke removes herself from the front of the room in order to find the Ladies Diyoza and Indra.

While she doesn’t see Indra anywhere, Diyoza is standing in a corner, eyes roving the crowd as though waiting for an assassin.

If only it were that easy.

With a polite, detached smile on her face to keep onlookers from gaining an interest in her conversation, she says quietly, “We have much to discuss, I suspect.”

Diyoza nods. “I think I’ve found the person you’re looking for.”

“So quickly?” She asks, more curious than anything.

“He acts quickly,” she says, eyes flicking to Finn on his throne, “and with little regard for propriety. While I don’t think it’s common knowledge yet, it also wasn’t hard to discover where his interests had turned.”

Clarke nods. She had expected this — had needed it really, or else the plan would need some significant adjustments to work.

“And do you think she could be amenable to our… way of thinking?” Clarke asks, careful to keep her words bland and unremarkable. She does not need to have someone overhear her blatant treason.

“She is not part of the court, and the machinations on all sides might not be something she is attuned to. But I suspect their connection is _one-sided_ at the moment, which means there is a chance she could be persuaded away from her present path.”

“Interesting,” she remarks, as though this is all just silly pleasantries. “I appreciate your help in this. Will I be introduced to her soon? Any good queen should make time to speak with her subjects.”

Diyoza smiles at her knowingly. “Yes, Your Highness. I can arrange for you to make her acquaintance.” 

The lady takes hold of her hand and curtsies to take her leave. As she walks away, Clarke can feel the slip of parchment that she had pressed into her palm during the exchange. 

Clarke is careful to slide the information into the top of her dress as she adjusts her bust.

That night, when she pulls the parchment out again in the safety of her rooms, she sees what Diyoza has given her.

_Raven Reyes. Find her with the smith._

Clarke reads the name until it is imprinted on the backs of her eyelids in Diyoza’s careful writing. Then she tosses the evidence into the fire, watching it burn away.

***

It takes a few days to find a chance to slip away, but she needs to do this in a way that will remain as inconspicuous as possible.

Luckily, she has never had cause to visit the smithy in person — anything she requires is sent for by others. The people who work there shouldn’t have great cause to recognize her face, despite the fact that they all operate within the same large palace complex.

She wears a cloak with the hood up, just to be safe. Underneath is the plainest dress she owns — something she wears when she is allowed time to practice swordplay, which almost never happens anymore.

She finds one of the smiths in the forge, being careful not to look him in the eye as she approaches. Her blonde hair is as tucked away as she could make it, since it is something that often people remember her for.

“Excuse me,” she says politely. “I was hoping you could help me find someone.”

“Of course, my lady,” the man says, clearly hedging his bets with the title. He might not know who she is, but he is smart enough to know she’s someone a bit too noble for anything less.

“I appreciate it. Someone has told me that I could speak to a Raven Reyes here. Is she about?”

He squints at her more seriously. He must not like the idea of people coming around to ask after Raven’s whereabouts. There is a sort of safety involved with anonymity. Still, Raven will not remain hidden for long if she stays her current course.

“She might be. Who is asking?”

“A potential patroness. I have need of her skills.”

She really, really hopes that Raven is around the smithy so often because she too is familiar with operating the forges. If she doesn’t work as a smith, the comment will sound considerably more ominous than she is intending to be.

The man doesn’t necessarily look pleased with the answer, but he does not try to send her away. Instead, he steps into the back, calling out for the girl in question.

When the girl walks out into view, Clarke is taken immediately by her beauty. Dark hair, long and straight, hangs prettily down her back. Her dress is simple but becoming on her thin frame. Though she walks with a slight limp, there is something entrancing about how she immediately draws the attention of the room to her.

In short, Clarke can see why Finn would be so interested in a tradesman’s daughter.

Raven asks the man, who she calls Sinclair, what he needs her for. Sinclair simply points at Clarke, saying only, “Someone would like to speak with you.” His tone is full of warning.

He must be very afraid for her. Even if Sinclair does not know that Clarke is the Queen, he seems to sense the danger present.

“Of course,” Raven says, facing Clarke. “Let’s speak in the back.”

She leads Clarke back through the large, hot room to a smaller space from which she had come. It seems to be a store room of odds and ends — there are anvils, variously sized hammers, and freshly-forged weapons dotted all about.

“What can I do for you?” She, unlike Sinclair, uses no honorifics or titles — just crosses her arms over her chest.

Clarke pulls down her hood. For all that she’d hoped her very minimal disguise would keep people from recognizing her, it is clear that Raven knows immediately who she is once her hair is visible.

“I’ve come to talk with you about my husband.”

Raven’s eyes are wide but her mouth is pressed in a firm line. Afraid, clearly, but trying not to show it.

“Does he need a new sword, Your Highness?”

Clarke laughs brightly, surprised by the gall of this girl.

“Goodness, no. I’m certain he doesn’t even need the one he has now.” Clarke would love to cut his _sword_ right off, but that’s beside the point.

Raven quirks an eyebrow, as though she was expecting Clarke to get angry with her cheek. They are both aware that Clarke knows of her husband’s wandering interests, after all.

“I know that my husband comes to visit you sometimes, or has you secretly brought to his rooms in the palace.”

Raven seems to weigh her options before simply replying, “Yes, Your Highness.”

“And I know that it is still quite new.”

Raven nods, so Clarke continues to drive the conversation.

“I know that he must have promised you nice things. Wealth, or prestige, or a title. Perhaps even _my_ title, if he’s being especially short-sighted.”

The girl says nothing to this.

“And I don’t care about much of that. I assume you’ve accepted his advances for your own reasons, or maybe because it is simply too difficult to tell a king _no._ What I need to know is if you love him.”

Raven’s face screws up in confusion. She carefully words her answer. “I love him as any good subject loves her King.” The smartest response, but not one that inspires much affection.

Clarke nods. “Of course. And yet, you are not _in love_ with him?”

“No, Your Highness.”

Clarke smiles.

“Interesting. And if you do not love him, then might I be able to make my own offer? Something better than whatever he’s offered. Power of your own rather than something derived from him. Anything he gives is given conditionally, and you will find yourself always beholden to him, always needing to keep him happy to retain what is yours.” Clarke looks her in the eyes, wanting Raven to understand her words. “What I promise you will be yours forever. I will never reclaim a gift given in service to me, and no man will challenge that.”

Raven looks at her with more interest than before, finally realizing that she is not in trouble. Instead, she’s possibly getting herself into much deeper trouble. And yet, just as Clarke was tempted towards treason, so too is she tempting Raven.

“I’m listening.”

“I have a plan, and I need you to make it work. But you must recognize that, if successful, it will end — ahem, _badly_ for the King. At no point can you fall in love with him.”

Raven looks undeterred, which is promising. “The King’s new taxes have nearly destroyed us, Highness. My love for the people here, for Sinclair who raised me, will always be stronger than an attachment to the King. Even if he protects me, I may not be able to use his affections to protect all of them. So I’m still listening.”

 _New taxes?_ she wants to ask. She has heard nothing of new taxes. They must have been implemented while she was away, and yet she has heard no mention of them at all in the several days since her return.

Still, now is not the ideal time to question the tax law.

“The bad news is, what you’d be doing is incredibly illegal. The good news is, your role only comes in right at the end, when the war is already won. Until then, you will be kept entirely out of the action, and no one will question your loyalty. If we fail, nobody will ever know you were involved, and your life will continue on as normal, being the King’s mistress. He will still reward you as he’s promised.”

Raven looks towards the door that leads back into the forge — thinking, Clarke assumes, about the people that Finn is hurting with his callous policies. Then she nods her head once decisively.

“What’s my job?”

Clarke smiles.

***

She is afraid, for many days after talking to Raven, that perhaps the woman will go straight to Finn with all the information Clarke has given her.

Of course, Clarke only told her the parts of the plan that were pertinent to her own role, but that’s hardly the point. If Finn learns that Clarke has gone to his mistress with plans to commit treason, he will act swiftly.

And yet, nothing happens.

Raven had seemed strangely _keen_ to bring about the King’s downfall. More than just not loving him, it seems she doesn’t even like him. Like Clarke, she was just a pawn in his game, and it didn’t matter whether or not she wanted to be involved.

Clarke spends the time learning more about the new taxes. Apparently, the large amount of money amassed through military conquest and careful spending on the former King Finley’s part has already been spent through — a casualty of the new king’s vanity. As a result, Finn has decided that he will simply increase the tax on the poorest people in the kingdom so he can continue to lavishly spend.

He wears increasingly beautiful clothes each day. The revels he throws are always boisterous, wine flowing freely. She has even heard that the tawny-haired mistress is being provided for in Azgeda by the King’s purse.

He needs the taxes to keep spending as he does, and it doesn’t matter that people may starve come winter without that money.

It makes her feel sick to hear about.

Realistically, this is _great_ for her cause, because there are very few who will rally themselves around a greedy King who bleeds his people dry, and yet she cannot bring herself to celebrate. There is no way to know how quickly she can put everything in place, and countless people could die before then.

She worries her lip that night, wishing that she and Bellamy had planned for this. Wishing, desperately, that she could help them. For all that her plans make her feel a little bit evil, and power-hungry, and monstrous, she knows that she is doing this because she is better than Finn. She will rule more justly, and the kingdom will prosper under a monarch who cares.

***

A month after her return to Polis, Finn stumbles drunkenly into her bedroom after she has already retired for the evening. Still in her dinner dress, she looks up from her seat by the fire at his entrance.

“Your Majesty?” She asks, genuine bewilderment in her tone. He never comes to her room. Never, in over four years of marriage, has he bothered to see her when he needn’t.

“Wife,” he says, venom coating the word.

She stands to meet him, setting down the letter she had been reading as she does so. Thankfully, the missive is completely devoid of anything incriminating, having arrived only this morning from her father.

“Husband. I admit I am surprised to see you at so late an hour.”

He steps closer to her, invading her space until he is able to reach out to grab her firmly around the neck. His other hand goes behind her head to pet her golden hair and keep her in his grasp.

“Are you?” He asks pleasantly, all the while she is frantically trying to remove his grip from her throat. He only tightens his hold, making her eyes bulge. She scratches at the skin of his hands, his arms. “I thought this was exactly what you wanted.”

“Finn,” she gasps as his fingers tighten again.

He keeps petting her hair idly.

Eventually, not wanting to let her pass out, he forces her backwards until she slams into her bedroom wall. Though her head immediately begins to pound, she can only feel grateful for the fact that his hand loosens enough for her to gulp in air. His nails dig into the skin of her neck until she feels them pierce through, blood dotting along the wounds.

“You wanted this, Clarke. You _wanted this!_ What did you think would happen when you sent her away?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Finn. I don’t want this. You should go back to your rooms — you’re drunk.”

She has no weapons on her person, and though he is deep in his cups, he is also bigger than her and filled with rage.

“You wanted my attentions, Clarke? You wanted to be my true queen? You will regret that.”

He moves them again, spinning her around so her back is against his chest before walking them over to the big wooden table in the room. It is where she takes dinners if she is not forced to eat with the court. Now, though, he forces her down against it, pushing against her head until her cheek is flush with the wood.

“Every day that you were gone, my ministers reminded me that I have not yet got an heir on you. Now, pretty mare, I think it is time you do your duty.”

He flips up the back of her dress, bunching it around her hips as best he can.

There is a knife — nothing special, just cutlery left over from her meal — in her line of sight, and she tries to inch her hand towards it without alerting him. Before she can reach it, though, his hand comes down on hers.

“Ah ah,” he tuts. “Just what do you think you’re going to do with that? Will you kill your _King_ for wanting to bed his wife? It is my right to fuck you, darling.”

She squeezes her eyes shut harshly. He’s right, of course. She can’t fight him, and no one will take her side if she tries to. A husband bedding his wife is lawful no matter how much she may dissent.

“My little harlot,” he murmurs, running his hands up her bare legs towards her center. Though her body is in no way prepared for what is coming, she can’t help but be glad that it isn’t her first time. It is the smallest blessing, and yet she holds on to the comfort as his fingers probe at her.

“Hold your dress up, little mare. I don’t want it getting in my way.”

Wordlessly, her hands move to hold her skirts up around her hips.

She tries to float away for everything that comes next, and yet the first thrust of his disgusting body into hers makes tears prick at her eyes while she stares sightlessly at the wall. 

He rhythmically forces her body forward against the table, and her prevailing thought through it all is that the edge is certain to leave bruises where it digs repeatedly into her skin. His hands paw at her skin, which she tries her hardest to ignore.

“Is this what you wanted, Clarke?” He asks between his panting. “You better fucking enjoy this. You did this.”

His words continue, piercing through her mind though she is half-certain she’s no longer present in her body. Eventually he stills inside her, his spend painting her insides pulse by pulse.

He pulls away, righting his own clothing as he leaves her lying across the table. Finally, he tugs her up, and her fingers numbly drop her skirts.

“Thank me,” he orders cruelly.

She can’t look in his eyes. Her skin feels itchy and dirty and sweaty and _disgusting,_ and it takes everything in her not to try crawling out of it.

“You don’t want to displease me right now, Clarke. Thank me.”

“Thank you,” she mumbles out through numb lips.

“Majesty,” he says.

She wants to be angry, wants to rage, and yet she can’t access that part of herself. Instead, she draws in a noisy, jagged breath.

“Thank you, Majesty.”

“Now give me a kiss.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to center herself before she spins out of control entirely.

Then, carefully, she steps forward, pressing a dry peck against his lips.

She wants to throw up, or throw herself into the fire, or maybe stab him.

They will kill her, of course, if she stabs the King. And yet for just a moment, it sounds worth it.

“I will return tomorrow, and every night until you are with child,” he says, delighting in her discomfort. He runs his knuckles down her cheek slowly. “And then I will come every night after that, just to ruin your life as you have ruined mine.”

As soon as he’s left the room, she lifts her skirts again, fingers frantically digging inside her body to try to scoop out his cum. She can’t get pregnant with his child. She _can’t._

She would sooner throw herself down the stairs than bear his child. 

She becomes frantic as she works, fingers harsh against her walls as they shake. Her nails scratch painfully against her own tender insides, but she can’t leave any of it in there.

She doesn’t have Bellamy’s tea with her. Doesn’t have anything to protect her. 

She keeps rooting around inside herself, trying to rid her body of this toxin, seconds away from hyperventilation.

She does not sleep at all that night.

In the morning, she sends for Lady Diyoza who is tasked with getting the tea — or any tea, or anything at all — that prevents pregnancy.

The naked fear in her eyes, like a cornered animal, makes Diyoza beg her to explain what happened, or to let her do something to move the plan forward so she will be safer. Clarke just sends her for the tea with no further word, and Diyoza gives her a sad look before departing.

By lunch, she’s had her tea, and she can only hope that it wasn’t administered too late. Bellamy had always given it to her directly after, but she isn’t sure what the time limit is.

She doesn’t leave her room at all that day, despite the fact that the sight of it is now hateful to her. He has defiled her only place of comfort in this wretched place, and now she must live in it every day going forward.

He returns that night, forcing her to strip for him before he takes her again. 

When he’s gone, she goes through the same process of scooping out as much of his spend as possible while the tea steeps.

She can feel, underneath the pretty ivory skin and honeyed hair, how her insides are rotting away. A beautiful queen — dainty and lovely, filled with maggots.

***

She finally leaves her rooms the next afternoon, needing to be present for a meeting.

The bruises on her neck from his hands are still purple, but no one asks anything about them. Perhaps they are too afraid — perhaps they already know who gave them to her, and that it is technically his right to do so.

She catches Miller’s eye as he stands guard over the King. Though they have never spoken directly, they are both aware of the plot and their shared connection to Bellamy.

He looks at the bruises before raising an eyebrow at her. She subtly shakes her head.

No, Bellamy should not know. He is as powerless as everyone else in this situation, and it will only upset him. He is just bravely stupid enough to think that chivalry means he needs to come here, sword at the ready and an army behind him, to steal her away.

And yet they all know that if he tries that tactic, he will lose.

So it is of no use for him to know. It won’t do anyone any good.

Miller purses his lips with displeasure, but returns his eyes to the front of the room. She is sure that he recognizes the same realities that she does.

It is a small comfort to know that Bellamy will continue on in Arcadia, blissfully unaware.

***

Finn continues to visit every evening.

***

Clarke meets with Raven, again disguised as well as she is able, to ask after her. They can only meet this one time, as she does not want anyone seeing them together. It wouldn’t do to have anyone knowing that they’re in each other’s confidence.

“Is he hurting you, Raven?”

“Hurting me? No, Clarke,” she says. Raven had unceremoniously dropped the _Your Highness_ very early on during their first meeting, and Clarke needs her more to be involved in the plot more than she needs the respect granted by a title, so she just lets it continue. Really she finds it kind of funny. Raven’s lack of decorum is the harmless kind. There’s friendship in it, not malice. “He is kind to me, if a little distant. We don’t meet more than two or three times a week, and even less if he’s very busy.”

Clarke nods. “And you are still okay to be with him?” She doesn’t want to force her to continue this role if Raven isn’t willing. She is now privy to exactly how awful it is to be an unwilling occupant of Finn’s metaphorical bed.

“I don’t have a choice even if I stop conspiring with you. He wants me, he gets me. At least if I stick with you, I can fuck him over in the end.”

Raven takes her hand, and it feels so warm wrapped around her cold, lifeless fingers.

In a hoarse voice, she forces out, “But you’re well otherwise?”

“I’m well. I swear, Clarke. Are _you_ well?” She asks, voice skeptical and pointed.

She doesn’t even bother trying to lie.

“I am not.”

Raven nods sadly, as though it is as she expected. Clarke doesn’t hide her emotions the way she wishes she could. She clenches her jaw in anger, wishing she was better able to cover her own pain. It does no good to broadcast her weakness to everyone.

Looking to Raven, she says, “But enough of that. Tell me about how the taxes are affecting the tradespeople.”

Raven talks for much of the next hour, telling her all that she’s heard from the people most affected by the taxes in the capital. The kingdom as a whole will be similarly off, if not worse without the patronage of the court to bring in money.

Clarke listens intently the entire time. Not everything in the world is about her. She wants to get back to focusing on the parts that aren’t.

***

As the weeks progress and turn into months, Finn’s visits begin to thin out, and while he still arrives at her door at least once a week, it seems that his responsibilities and his time spent with Raven have eaten away at his evenings.

And though it is a little too early to be sure, he seems certain that by now his seed must’ve taken root (because, after all, the virility of the King can never be in question), which means there’s less imperative to visit her beyond making her miserable. While he still loves doing that, it seems he simply can no longer let it take up all his time.

For that, she’s glad.

She spends more time with her sword, which has been much-neglected since arriving in the City of Light years ago. Finn did not like having a wife who fought so well — thought it rather unbecoming of her, actually — and so he had forced her to stop. But no one polices her so constantly now that Finn is getting his sadistic joy from what happens to her at night.

***

Four months after her return to Polis, the King’s Chancellor decides to retire following the recent death of his son. Chancellor Jaha, though pragmatic at times, was always more willing to play into Finn’s vices than Clarke was comfortable with. It would’ve been near impossible to convince him that a little light treason was a good idea now and again.

But it seems the gods are smiling upon her cause. She can’t help but smirk when it is announced during a lavish banquet that the King has named Lord Marcus Kane as the next Chancellor.

Marcus Kane had been a semi-frequent guest in her little salons prior to her trip home. Like many of the nobles, he was worried about what it meant to betray the King, as he would surely lose his head if it all went wrong, and yet he couldn’t help but be smart enough to realize that allying with Finn was akin to staying aboard a sinking ship.

“Congratulations on your good fortune, Chancellor,” she says innocently after dinner has ended and the dancing has begun. “I’m sure there is no man in Polis more deserving of the role.”

“I’m not sure about that, Highness, but I appreciate the sentiment,” he replies amiably.

“And yet, I am certain that _I_ cannot think of a better candidate. May you have a long and successful tenure in the office of Chancellor.” She takes a sip of her drink as a toast. She wants him to understand that, should things change — should _she_ one day be calling the shots — he could maintain his esteemed role in the kingdom.

He gives her a calculating look. She knows that he hasn’t fully thrown his lot in with her yet, but he hasn’t ruled out the possibility.

“I hope it will be successful indeed. I would like to make a great many changes if I am able. For the good of the realm.”

“Of course. I am sure you will meet with many stumbling blocks on your current path, but I wish you luck in the endeavor. If you know the _right people,_ I’m sure you’ll have an easier time affecting change.” Then, as though worried her coded words are ringing too close to the truth for anyone listening in, she laughs and adds, “And I’m sure a man as well-connected as yourself has many people who will help you to bring about reforms.”

“Yes, Your Highness — I think I know just the people. Would you care to dance?” He asks, setting his goblet down to take her hand.

She smiles and follows him out to join the next volte.

As they chat politely through the dance about the taxes (during which she mentions how it’s rather a shame to hear about the suffering in the north due to the changes, which he seems to agree with), she feels surer than before that the new Chancellor can be brought to her side.

It finally feels like the pieces are coming together.

***

News reaches them in the capital a few weeks later that the people in the north are organizing into a peasants’ revolt, refusing to work the Lords’ land if the taxes are going to leave them all but destitute.

Finn rages in a council meeting that she is not invited to.

In fairness, she is never invited to council meetings, but she often sits innocently near their chamber so that she can attempt to listen in. Usually she can only catch murmurs, but today Finn’s shouts carry easily.

It sounds as though the advice being given to him by his ministers and Kane is not what he had been hoping to hear.

Finn wants to mobilize the various Lords’ armies against the insurgents, but Kane cannot help but advise him that turning the army on his own people after he had just pulled them out of a war they’d been winning would be _terrible_ optics for a still-new King.

(And it would be.)

But that is not what Finn wants to hear.

When they eventually all depart the chamber, the ministers seem haggard. Finn, meanwhile, flounces out angrily with his cloak floating behind him. He does not even stop to look at her in her curious spot.

Kane, though, gives her a long, heavy look.

In his eyes, she sees his thoughts: _If you are going to do something, now is the time._

If she waits, untold numbers of people in the north may die. This is her chance, with the nobles angry and the people enraged, to play her hand. To show them that there are other options.

She dips her head in a carefully concealed nod.

That evening during dinner, while the King rages around and everyone looks on worriedly, she finds her chance to make contact with Miller.

She doesn’t have time to go over specifics, but she whispers under her breath “It’s time,” while passing him a covert note. The message is for both him and Bellamy, detailing all that she has managed to put in place and where each chess piece currently sits. Miller, in his capacity as a guard to the King, will likely be able to supplement her information with things he’s picked up on when he sends it all to Bellamy.

“How long?” He asks under his breath.

“It’ll have to be quick. Two, maybe three weeks if he can swing it.”

“He can, Majesty.”

“Highness,” she corrects without thinking. _Majesty_ is the title reserved for the sovereign, and only Finn can be addressed as such. Still, on occasion, people who are unfamiliar with the rigid rules of nobility will call her majesty in error. It’s second nature to make the correction at this point.

Miller’s eyes just twinkle, though. He more than just about anyone would be familiar with the way titles work in Polis.

“Of course, Highness.”

She feels a warmth in her belly at the realization that he has, in his own little way, declared her his ruler.

It shouldn’t really be surprising. They are working towards the same aim with the help of the same man. The end goal of this whole godforsaken conspiracy has her sitting on Finn’s throne, so it shouldn’t be a shock that he’d see her in that way.

And yet it’s the first time that anyone has really said it. So casual, like it’s just a fact of life.

_Her Majesty Clarke, Queen Regnant of Polis._

It’s an intoxicating thought.

So much has been taken from her since she moved to Polis to marry Finn. He has done everything possible to humiliate her, to hurt her, to break her spirit. 

It will all be worth it if only she can pull this off successfully.

She only gives Miller a nod before walking away, not wanting to spend too long in his confidence with so many lingering eyes about. 

Finn leaves long before the evening ends, giving her time to speak with Indra, who will, in turn, pass along the same message to Raven. _It’s time. Make your preparations._

When she arrives back at her apartments, Finn is already waiting there, full glass of wine in hand.

“My wife!” He says with mock cheer. “Pleased as ever to see me, I assume.”

She huffs out a frustrated breath before hiking up her own skirts and bending unceremoniously over her mattress.

“Just be quick, Finn. I don’t have all night for your pathetic drunken pity party.”

“You aren’t worried about the rioters, darling?” He slurs out.

“I’m sure you’ll handle it marvelously, as you do everything else,” she says sarcastically. It’s not the ideal time to finally stand up to him — not when she’s so close to pulling off a coup that he absolutely cannot be tipped off early about — but she can’t bite her tongue. Hopefully it’ll all blur together in his drunken memory.

He just grunts in agreement, as though he assumes her words were said with sincerity.

As he fucks her that night, clearly angry and annoyed with the state of the kingdom, she can’t help but picture the many, many gruesome ways she might do away with him when this is all said and done.

The plan never specified whether or not Finn died at the end, and yet there are so many titillating options flashing before her eyes as she stares into the lit fireplace.

She could throw him off the parapets of the City of Light’s castle after she proclaims herself Queen.

She could tie his limbs to four different horses before sending them running in opposite directions.

She could brick him into the wall she builds around her fortress.

She could hold his head underwater until the bubbles stop coming up. Maybe make it a barrel of wine instead. That would be poetic.

With each thrust of his hips forcing her further into the mattress, her ideas become increasingly macabre and theatrical.

If she is going to be a murderer, she’d like to know she’s done it as thoroughly as possible. There is no point staining her hands red otherwise.

The images make her smile into her bed covers.

***

For all the weeks of planning and months of execution that have gone into this coup, the event itself happens shockingly quickly.

Finn tasks his ministers and nobles with raising their armies to attack the peasants in the northeast. Thus far, the people there have not had the time to fully mobilize as they are by no means a fighting force, and although they can potentially rise in staggering numbers, he estimates that it will take several weeks before things reach a fever pitch.

In the meantime, while forces are being gathered to support the King, Raven begs him to take her away for a few days. They have had no time together as she must stay hidden from the court in the way her predecessor — a noblewoman — did not. As such, she suggests they visit one of the King’s favorite hunting lodges in the northwest, close to the border with Azgeda. It is a safer place to be now that they have a peace accord, and would keep them out of immediate danger from the rioters in the east. The lodge is technically a small castle, though not nearly as impressive or impenetrable as some of their other abodes.

They leave not long after, the King only taking his personal servants, guards, and a small retinue with him. In an effort not to make a scene that would have his obstinate wife running for Arcadia again, he must travel inconspicuously.

Of course, that’s what Clarke had been hoping for.

Bellamy lands a few days after the King departs, ships filled to the brim with his three thousand accompanying troops. 

Clarke can’t help but remember that these are the troops he has been raising and cultivating — swaying to his cause bit by bit — over the course of his entire life, planning to reclaim his own throne. That he would risk his own future in an effort to help her is—

Well, it’s something too massive to overlook, yet simultaneously too overwhelming to fully comprehend.

She’d stolen a horse that morning to ride to the coast so she could witness his arrival. She will need to be at the front of his army with him when they begin their trek inland.

Indra and Diyoza are at her sides as the row boats begin to disembark from the ships, carrying the passengers to the beach. As the first boat hits the sands, she sees Bellamy climb out with all the bravado of a man with the eyes of an army on him.

His cheeky smile and confident ease are a comfort to her after so many months under the leadership of an inept, selfish ruler.

The silly little girl in her wishes to run to him after so long apart, but the Queen she has become remains steadfast. The wind coming off the water whips her heavy skirts around her as she waits for him to make his way towards her.

“Your Majesty,” he says with an affectionate little laugh. He kneels before her, kissing the ring on her finger. His men look on at the scene.

She does not correct him about her title.

“Your Grace,” she returns, voice regal. Then, turning up the corner of her lips in a smile, she squeezes his hand and adds a warm, “Bellamy.”

He rises and presses his lips to her cheek. “Clarke.”

As his men continue to disembark their boats, she fills him in on the situation as it stands. Miller has had little time to communicate with him since sending the word to begin the invasion, and thus there are changes he must be made aware of.

As they talk, she pulls him in unceremoniously for a kiss in front of his troops. He starts at the move, shocked at her openness, and yet she can’t bring herself to care. These are his men — men who have stuck beside him even without a crown. Their loyalty is not in question.

And besides that, it hardly matters at this point if she’s not the perfect wife any longer. She has sanctioned — nay, _invited_ — a foreign invading force to depose the King. If they fail, infidelity will be the least of her crimes.

So she kisses him, mouth hungry against his. His hands are quick to find her waist, holding her to him like it’s all he’s thought about in the long months apart.

“Clarke—” he says around her lips. “I—”

“Be quiet,” she interrupts, words playful and lacking any authority. “Just let me have this one moment. I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” His voice is strangled as it comes out. “So much.”

“Then kiss me while we have a spare moment. I’m sure we’ll be busy again soon.”

He doesn’t require any further direction, hands curling into her hair.

If she had been worried about intimacy after everything that had happened with Finn, she needn’t be. There is something so warm and _safe_ about being around Bellamy. For all his posturing in the early days of their acquaintance, he has always been nothing but kind and patient with her — as gentle as she may sometimes need and as rough as she often desires.

He may well be sacrificing _everything_ to free her of her husband.

At no point has he bargained for something out of her. He has never forced her to promise that she will marry him when she is Queen in order to give him a crown. He has never extracted a vow that she will fight for his right to the throne of Tondisi once they have secured Polis.

Although these ideas may sit as question marks in the back of his head, he has never pressured her — never made her feel that she is a stepping stone on the path to something greater. 

He is here for her, and she can’t feel anything but an overwhelming _relief_ to be doing this with him.

Indra approaches them not long after.

“Majesty,” she says, nodding at Clarke. Among their rebelling force, she is already the reigning monarch.

Bellamy glances to the shore, seeing his troops lined up in the ranks. “Come on, princess. Let’s go steal you a crown.”

***

Already late afternoon, they normally would’ve had to make camp on the coast and wait until the next morning, but the castle they are targeting is only an hour’s march away, so they take the risk.

When they arrive at Chancellor Marcus Kane’s castle, he is standing atop the gatehouse, having departed the capital to raise his own army for the King. Clearly he had been made aware of her marching forces as they approached.

“Your Highness,” he calls down from his perch.

“Chancellor Kane,” she returns. “It is _Majesty_ now, if you will have me.”

He glances from her, radiant in a golden dress unmarred by the long journey she’d spent on horseback, to her army behind her. Then, gesturing to the people manning the gate, he says, “Of course, Majesty. Come in.”

***

They dine with Marcus that evening, joining him in his private chambers for the meal. She, with the help of Bellamy, Indra, Diyoza, and Bellamy’s other right hand man Murphy, explains what is to occur in the coming weeks.

Kane, for his part, seems surprised by the scope of their plan, though not by its existence. He pledges to them the use of his castle until they are ready to move, along with the use of his already mobilized troops.

Adding to what Bellamy has already provided her, she now has a standing army of four thousand men, ready to march on her orders.

A rush of power surges through her bloodstream, better than any wine on the face of the earth.

They spend another day in the Chancellor’s home before beginning the trek towards Finn. Kane joins them for the journey, wanting to be at his Queen’s side.

They march northwest for the next two weeks, and every nobleman’s castle they stop at along the way throws open their doors for her. She may be an invading force, but clearly Polis’s nobles are in her corner. At the very least, they recognize that Finn cannot stop what is coming for him and would rather choose to be on the side of the winner.

When they are still a few days out, she gets word from their messengers that Finn has been tipped off about her progress, but it seems that he is stuck, choosing to try to rally allies from neighboring duchies and estates rather than attempting to flee.

He is a fool. A smarter man would’ve travelled to the first port he could reach in order to sail away and regroup.

She is very lucky that her husband is a conceited and careless man.

***

When they reach the hunting lodge turned castle on the seventeenth day, there is hardly any attempt to guard the site.

It is not a large site, and has little by way of reinforcements. It does have a small wall surrounding the estate proper, but nothing that would allow for a siege. Her armies could climb it easily, and even the defensive measures that usually protect a castle would not be enough to save them for long.

At the front of her forces — sitting astride her horse in a blood red gown with gold accents, sword at her side — she shouts, “I have come for the traitor King!”

Her men, having swelled in number with each castle they stopped at, yell and jeer behind her. They certainly have no love for their king.

“Surrender to me and we will not be forced to storm the estate!”

Nothing happens for a long time. Though she is sure Finn knows she’s here, she does not know if he will force her hand.

Then, exactly as choreographed, the gate at the front swings open, Raven waiting for her. She looks harried, like she’s had to escape from wherever Finn is hiding away in order to perform her part of the dance, but there is a bright smile on her face.

“Took you long enough,” she laughs. “I’ve had to spend the last few weeks alone with him.”

Clarke smiles back. “Your efforts on behalf of the realm haven’t been forgotten.”

“They better not be.”

Clarke only chuckles, leading her troops inside the gates.

***

Finn, upon realizing that his mistress has betrayed him to his wife, sits himself as majestically as possible in the small reception room of the castle. His little throne here is hardly as impressive as the one in the capital, but she understands the gesture — even if he loses, he will do so with all due grace. He will make her play the part of the brute by turning himself into the devoted and dignified martyr.

“Dearest,” he says condescendingly. “This is not the reunion I had hoped for.”

“It’s rather a pity that I have not come to reconcile. I have, along with your Chancellor, your ministers, and thousands of your people, come to demand your immediate abdication.”

He laughs coldly. “And who will take my place? My wife has given me no heirs, and I, a brotherless prince, have no one to succeed me.”

She wants to mention that he’d hardly made a valiant attempt at heirs until it became a way to punish her, but she bites her tongue.

He continues. “So there is no one save myself to rule, unless my _upstart wife_ thinks she is somehow owed this land — one to which she was only recently welcomed. Do the people really want an Arcadian princess as the sole inhabitant of Polis’s throne?”

“I have learned much in my years here, husband, including quite a lot of what not to do. I thank you for your instruction in this area, as I think I will be a better Queen for it. Now I must insist that you sign away your right to the crown. I would be happy to do this in a dungeon if that would help you to be more forthcoming.”

He scowls at her, looking from face to face as though he might find someone who will turn on her in the eleventh hour and save him.

There are no allies here for him.

“I want a guarantee for my safety.”

She pulls her sword out of its sheath, reveling in the loud sound it makes in the otherwise silent room. Finn’s eyes go wide.

“We all want a lot of things. I have been disappointed many times in such pursuits.” She runs a finger along the sharp edge of the blade. “I think you should prepare yourself for disappointment.”

“Clarke—” he chokes out, finally showing his fear.

“Majesty,” she interrupts, voice steely. 

He looks around again, more harried this time now that he is truly cornered.

“You will sign the letter of abdication we have drafted for you, Finn.”

He signs.

***

She stands out on the steps leading into the tiny castle, her most trusted advisors behind her. Finn has been taken down to the dungeon here until he can be moved somewhere more secure.

She faces her army — thousands of men who have travelled across the width of the kingdom or even farther to see her take power. Beyond the ranks, she can see a gathering crowd of spectators from the nearby lands, keen to see what all the fuss is about.

Hand on her pommel, she addresses them in her loudest voice, sound carrying over the heads of so many people.

“I have your King, my husband, locked away in the dungeon,” she shouts. “He was a coward! A man too selfish with his riches and too weak against our enemies! He was a traitor!”

The crowd begins to make noises of assent at this.

“A traitor to his crown!” She reiterates. “A traitor to his kingdom! A traitor to _you —_ the people who he was sworn to protect!

“He has signed away his rights to the throne, and is king no longer! I stand before you ready to take his place, putting you and this kingdom always first! If you will have me as your sovereign lord, Queen Regnant of the Kingdom of Polis, I will do all that my paltry husband could not! Though this is not the land of my birth, it _is_ my homeland, and I will fight and die for you if I must! If you will have me!”

By the end of the speech, her voice is hoarse but her spirit is strong. She can do this — she can stand before them like an immovable force and make her presence unforgettable.

When her words cut out, the crowd cheers loudly for her, the screams near-deafening.

After things have died down just enough for him to be heard, Bellamy shouts, “Long live the Queen!”

The words are returned to him from every angle, shouted again and again as she looks over the people.

 _Her_ people.

***

They stay the night in the hunting lodge, and Clarke stays the night in Bellamy’s arms, sweaty and panting from the hard fucking he’d given her.

“What now, Your Majesty?” He asks, playing with her fingers with a single-minded sort of attention.

“Now I suppose we go back to the capital and plop a crown on my head so I can pretend I know what I’m doing.” Then she smiles, placing a kiss on his shoulder where her head rests. “Only I would not have you call me Majesty. Everyone else may, but I will feel terribly self-important if you start.”

He laughs. “Quite the reversal of opinion. What shall I call you then, sweetheart?”

“That would be fine.”

“Or darling,” he suggests, nuzzling into her neck to place his lips there.

“Yes, of course—”

“Or my love,” he adds, cutting her off. He moves towards her lips slowly, peppering kisses liberally along the way.

She just nods, a little whimper escaping her.

When his lips ghost against hers, he whispers out, “Or perhaps just Clarke.”

She pulls him down for a proper kiss before he can suggest anything else.

Later, she asks him, “What will you do next?”

The question makes her palms sweat, and she can’t bring herself to look him in the eye in the silence of the room after she’s posed it, but she needs to know. Arcadia is not his homeland and it’s not his end goal.

“I suppose I’ll be wherever you are,” he replies easily.

“You don’t… you don’t want to keep pushing north into Tondisi? Your men are here now, and we would let them use our border if required.”

“I’m not in a rush. I’d like to get there eventually, but there is a lot to do here, and I’m sure you’ll need a few spare hands to get things in order.”

“And you won’t mind that?” She presses, still afraid that there is worse news to come.

“Won’t mind what? Waiting?”

“Being— well, I suppose a knight by his Queen’s side. You have a throne to recapture; surely this isn’t enough to please you.”

He fingers skim along her arm, up and down until she can feel the goosebumps rising.

“The crown isn’t everything, Clarke. I would like to have it some day, after so many years, but my priorities aren’t the same as they were a year ago.”

She hopes he means that _she_ is his priority, but she’s unwilling to ask.

“So you’ll stay with me?”

“If you want me gone,” he says, kissing her forehead tenderly, “you’ll have to order me away.”

***

They arrive back in the City of Light after another week of traveling, moving slowly as the column of their army marches behind them.

When she reaches the castle, the gates open without issue, allowing her in to claim her throne.

After a quick wash to clean off the dirt from the road and a clothing change into her best dress, she receives the court in the throne room, where each noble steps forward in turn to kiss her ring and swear allegiance to her.

There will be a more formal coronation when they’ve had time to plan for it, but this will do for the moment.

When every lord, lady, and knight has pledged themself to her, Bellamy appears, taking the same vow.

It is stupid for him to do so publicly — after all, should he reclaim his throne, people may call into question whether he answers to her instead of relying on his own authority as a ruler should.

Still, it makes her heart jump in her chest when he kneels before her. 

When he has moved back to his spot at the front of the crowd, she sits, and Kane places the heavy golden crown upon her head.

Again, they make a chorus of _long live the Queen,_ and she feels the weight of the great and terrible future promised to her on the day of her birth.

She can only hope that her greatness outweighs the rest.

Perhaps, after everything, her mother might be proud of the child who was not a son.

***

For most of Clarke’s subjects, this is where the story of her short-lived treachery ends. She planned a coup and won, stealing the throne right out from under her husband. That is the story they’ll remember, and though the years following will come with both hardship and victory, they will never eclipse her earliest days in the eyes of the bards who sing of their she-wolf queen. 

Still, the tales always end with her ascension to power, her lover in the crowd with a smile on his face.

That’s only because she’s so careful to cover up the treachery that comes next.

***

It takes six months after she begins her reign before they can hold a coronation. This isn’t an issue — coronations are often months or even years after a monarch takes power. It’s better, when things are in dispute, to have them quickly, but Finn is locked away under such heavy guard overseen by Miller that she isn’t concerned he’ll be freed and steal back the throne.

Still, it’s a relief to know that she’ll be formally anointed in one day’s time. It will hopefully quiet any lingering naysayers.

But that’s tomorrow’s prerogative, and she has a task to complete in the meantime.

“Murphy,” she says, seeking out the man as he goes about his daily tasks. “I need you to accompany me on a short trip.”

He gives her an appraising look. “You don’t have any trips booked today.”

“Not officially, no.”

“Does Bellamy know?”

“Bellamy is not my keeper. Is he yours?”

Murphy just scowls, offended easily at the implication despite the fact that he is often found just a step behind Bellamy. Underfoot, as always.

“He will just follow us.”

“So be it, if that’s the case. I am not purposefully hiding anything from him. This little adventure is simply best handled with as little fanfare as possible, and I think you could prove useful if things get out of hand.”

He quirks an eyebrow at her, clearly more interested now.

“Then lead the way, _your most serene Majesty,”_ he says with an elaborate, flourishing bow.

She only rolls his eyes, throwing a “get two horses” over her shoulder as she moves to grab the last of her things.

They depart the castle with no fanfare, wanting to stay undetected. With so much happening to prepare for the coronation, no one seems focused on the exact whereabouts of the woman at the center of it all.

It’s only a half hour’s ride to the keep she has been meaning to visit. Murphy had realized where they were heading not long after they’d set off, but he’d merely given her a pointed look.

“Stay here,” she commands as they dismount. “I will call for you when you’re required.”

“Clarke, no. He will _actually_ kill me if I send you in there alone.”

“Your concern is touching,” she says with a strange mix of sarcasm and authenticity. “But this is something I’d like to handle alone. I _will_ call for you if required, rest assured of that.”

He doesn’t look happy, but makes no further protest as she enters the keep, passing several guards along the way.

The guards that Miller trusts the most. They have all been paid handsomely for today’s rounds, of course, and she hopes the money plus their loyalty will stop their tongues.

When she enters the prison cell, a wicked smile crosses her face.

“Finn, my dearest, you’re looking well.”

He looks up to see her standing in the doorway and his eyes go wide. Within the space of a breath, he’s letting out a growl and rushing as close to her as he can get with the chains around his wrists and ankles.

“You,” he spits.

“I’ve come to see my favorite husband before my coronation tomorrow.”

He grunts again, tugging on the taut chains like this burst of determination might be the thing that finally frees him. Like he longs to get his hands around her neck again.

“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance. Should’ve sent you to your mother’s funeral only to sink the ship you travelled on. Should’ve had you smothered in your sleep. Should’ve—”

Her eyes are wide — demure and earnest as she tips her head to the side — before she cuts him off. “You’re right.”

This trips him up for a second, and he gives her a confused look.

“You’re right — you should’ve killed me when you had the chance. It would’ve saved you a lot of trouble.”

She lets her hand lovingly caress the rounded pommel of the sword hanging at her hip. How she enjoys the fear that enters his eyes as he follows the motion.

“I bet you wish you hadn’t underestimated me, dearest. But what is it they say about wishes?”

She drags a finger teasingly down his cheek. There is not enough slack left in his chains to bring his hands up to brush her off, though that doesn’t stop him from attempting to bite at her. It makes her laugh.

“Ah, yes. _If wishes were horses, beggars would ride._ It’s a bit too late for you though.”

Then, without warning, she bends down to hike her skirts up. Attached to her thigh by a leather holster is a little dagger — six or seven inches and deadly sharp.

“I won’t make the same mistake,” she says coldly as she draws the blade.

“What?” he asks with false bravado. No amount of posturing will save him now, but he is unwilling to let down the facade. “So out of practice with your sword that you have to resort to _that?”_

“Not at all,” she says with a smile, corrosive and lovely. “Swords just provide such _distance,_ and I’d really like to be as close as possible when the light leaves your eyes. It’s only fair, really. You tortured me for months, knowing how repulsed I was by your touch. And now my touch will be your undoing.”

The thing is, queens are meant to be merciful. They are meant to turn the other cheek, to forgive, and to lead as peacefully as possible. They guide their husbands towards clemency wherever they are able. It’s a woman’s lot in life to always be the gentle mother-figure, tender and mild.

And let it not be said that Clarke is without compassion — she has forgiven many of the (relatively few) nobles who chose to stand by her husband during the rebellion. She has pardoned criminals and given much to her people. She does what is necessary to be a _good_ monarch, and sometimes that does mean clemency.

But this is not one of those times. Here, she will be as vindictive as she pleases. She will relish his fear until his final breaths. They are dangerously numbered.

“You’re sick,” he spits out, using anger to cover fear. “And twisted. There is nothing left in you that is redeemable.”

She nods slowly. “Not today, certainly. Tomorrow I’ll be the picture of decorum. I’ll swear the oaths binding me to the wellbeing of the realm. I’ll sit on my throne when told, wear the crown they provide, and I’ll begin to rule in earnest. But today…. god, today.”

She doesn’t bother finishing her sentence, relishing, for the moment, the thought of what she will soon do.

She used to live in fear of him. It took only one conversation to send away her ladies all those years ago, and she held no power at all to stop him. It was his role as husband and king that allowed him to ignore her, demean her, _and_ use her body against her will. On his orders wars were ended, land was lost, taxes were raised, and people obeyed because there simply wasn’t anything to be done about it.

She had been a slave to his whims, just as the kingdom had.

Now his fate rests in her hands. With a simple action, she can condemn him to eternity. With some cleverly crafted words of propaganda, she can make sure that his name is relegated to the ash heap of history. No one will speak favorably of King Finn’s short reign for the rest of time.

His life — his _memory_ — is in her hands.

For the first time, she is almost afraid of how much power she has now. It would be so easy to let it consume her. Like a diamond, she may indeed be cut with her own dust.

But just today, she will let out her worst impulses. Tomorrow, as she’s promised Finn, she will be good again.

Her lips curl up into a smile again as she runs her finger along the edge of her blade, being careful not to draw blood.

He drags his eyes up and down her person, like he is finally seeing her for what she is. Like he is finally realizing definitively how this will end.

“Please—” he chokes out.

“Please what, dear?”

“I… Send me away. To Azgeda, maybe. Or one of the easternmost kingdoms far away from Polis. Let me live out my days in exile, and you will never hear from me again.”

She lets out a little giggle. “Oh, Finn. I’ve just told you that I won’t make the mistake of underestimating you. And while you were a truly terrible king, I would never pretend to downplay the depths you will go to for revenge. You have always enjoyed making my life a misery.”

“I won’t! I swear, Clarke. You don’t have to kill me. You don’t have to be a murderer.”

“Would you have spared me, if it came down to it? If you could’ve killed me to keep your mistress, you would have. It’s only because I outsmarted you that I survived.”

He clenches his jaw, annoyed by this line of logic.

“You could be better.”

“Stop begging and accept my decision,” she barks out. “You said that to me once. You were trying to make me feel small, and it worked. I’ve always remembered that day. It taught me an important lesson: why try to be better when I could instead be so much _worse?”_

“Fuck you.”

She tips her head to the side again, peering at him with a benign curiosity. She’s hardly in a rush here.

“Do you regret it? What you did to me, I mean. What you did to my body.”

He contorts himself in his chains so he is as close as he can get to her, staring her down with only inches separating them.

“No,” he smiles. “I’d do it again if I could. Right here. Make you carry my seed just to spite you.”

She keeps her eyes firmly on him. “I’m glad.” His eyes cloud over briefly with confusion, so she continues. “If you felt remorse, I might find myself equally feeling regret for this one day, and I’d rather not.”

Then, without warning, she stabs him in the side, dagger fitting itself just under his rib cage. She never takes her eyes off his.

“Fuck,” he breathes out as she removes the weapon. It comes out covered in blood, and though there is little he can do, the shock has him cradling the wound to hold himself together.

“Uh uh, my dearest,” she tuts at him reprovingly. “That won’t do.”

She backhandedly stabs him again on the other side of his chest, burying her dagger in to the hilt as he screams. She can feel exactly how it punctures through his muscles and organs. There’s a sickening sort of pleasure when she draws it back out and sees his life spilling out of the entry wound. The blood drips on the floor. It covers her hands already.

He stumbles back towards the wall that his chains connect to. “Clarke,” he gasps out.

“Those won’t kill you immediately.”

She walks towards him leisurely. There is still hardly a rush. When she’s again standing before him, she draws the flat of her dagger along his dirty white shirt, wiping the blood off of both sides.

“You might beg me, though. To make it quicker.”

“Clarke, I— I don’t want to die.”

“Ah,” she says, moving the pointed tip of her weapon along his chest, indecisive over where to strike next. “That’s not an option I’m afraid. You’re begging for the wrong thing. These wounds _will_ kill you, just not quickly. But you might entreat me to speed things up, if I’m feeling benevolent.”

He says nothing, clearly still shocked as more blood seeps from his sides.

“Alright, suit yourself.” She stabs into his thigh. He lets out another scream, and she twists the knife this time before removing it. The blood spills out of this larger wound, pooling at his feet.

“I know how to make this last for a while, darling. I could cauterize these wounds and keep going all day if it pleases me.”

“No!” He yelps, overwhelmed by the pain.

“Beg then,” she says, letting the flat of her blade brush across his trembling lips. 

Finally, his resolve crumbles, and tears spring to his eyes. “Please.”

“Please what?”

His shoulders drop in defeat. “Please kill me.”

“I’m already doing that. I need you to be a bit more specific. And I’d like you to use my title, dearest.”

“Please kill me _faster,_ Your Majesty,” he grits out.

“Lovely,” she smiles. “That wasn’t so hard at all, was it?”

Her fingers, coated in his slick red blood, come up to press against his neck, holding him to the wall.

“A fitting end, I’d say. At least your neck won’t be bruised for weeks.”

He laughs humorlessly. “I doubt it’ll be without injury though.”

She caresses his jaw, leaving behind pretty red trails. “No,” she murmurs. “Certainly not.”

She grabs his jaw, making sure his eyes stay on her. “I want to be the last thing you see.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can say anything, her dagger is buried deep in his neck.

He gasps, more blood spilling down his throat and bubbling from his mouth. His eyes quickly haze over, and when she removes the blade and steps away, his body slumps lifelessly to the ground in a heap.

“May you get what you deserve,” she whispers into the silence of the room. “Long live the Queen.”

***

Maybe she should feel guiltier about what she has done. About the depths of depravity she has sunk to.

She doesn’t.

Her hands are calm and steady as she moves to exit the keep. Though her dress is covered in blood spatters, stained beyond repair, she keeps her head high while passing the guards.

They do not look surprised by her appearance, and make no comment about the wellbeing of their prisoner.

The only person who is mildly surprised is Bellamy, who she finds pacing outside while Murphy leans against the horses.

They both look up when she returns, eyes wide.

Murphy, like the others, chooses wisely not to remark on her appearance, instead saying only, “I told you he would freak out and follow us.”

“I never doubt your stunning gift for prophecy, Murphy,” she returns sarcastically.

She walks up to Bellamy, and his eyes never leave her face.

“Clarke,” he chokes out.

He doesn’t look disgusted by her, or afraid of her, or like he’s judging her actions. 

He looks worried for her. It’s so classically Bellamy that it’s hard to find the reaction surprising, even though she had worried that seeing her covered in the blood of her husband might make him question bedding her again.

Which would’ve been a terrible shame. Far from regretting her actions, she actually wishes — deep in her shameful, blackened heart — that she could drag him back into the keep with her, roll Finn’s body out of the way, and fuck Bellamy in the puddle of blood.

It’s a sickening thought, and yet she can feel herself getting wet as she pictures it. The sadism makes her blood sing.

Looking into her eyes, he must see something redeeming. Or something worth loving. Or maybe he’s just watching her fantasy play out in her head.

Either way, he doesn’t hesitate to grab her hand, now sticky with the congealing blood. The edges are already dried and brown, caked into the lines of her skin and under her fingernails, but much of it is still a dark red color.

He never takes his eyes of hers as he raises it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

His lips come away red.

She only barely contains a moan.

Then, unexpectedly, he sucks her index finger into his mouth, laving his tongue around it sensuously until it comes back out clean.

“Gross,” Murphy mutters from the side. Her eyes flick to him briefly, wondering if he isn’t at least a little bit turned on by this. _She_ undoubtedly is. There is something repulsively, beautifully carnal about it.

“Go confer with the guards about the body, Murphy. See what their timeline is for next steps.”

Murphy just huffs before sauntering off.

Clarke’s hands are buried in Bellamy’s hair, pulling him in for a kiss before Murphy’s back is even turned.

***

She changes into a spare dress she’d packed before they return to the castle.

No one questions where they’ve been.

Bellamy fucks her into the bed that night until she screams.

***

The next morning, her ladies — a group she has handpicked both for their loyalty and their good company — help her through the very meticulous preparations required for a coronation. There is a long bath in the early hours of the day during which her skin is rubbed practically raw. 

Once finished, they dress her in a heavy purple gown that is covered in delicate beadwork. Her hair is left mostly unstyled, the loose curls tumbling down her back. There’s a reason for the hair — to show openness, maybe, or innocence? — but she can’t remember it. When women have coronations to be crowned Queen Consorts (wives of Kings, rather than a Queen Regnant, which is what she formally becomes today), their hair is always unbound.

She doesn’t mind. At least it cuts down their preparation time slightly.

In all, it takes several hours of primping and plucking before she’s deemed ready to be crowned. 

Despite the grandeur of her dress, she chooses to ride to the cathedral rather than be carried by litter. As they make their way from the castle, crowds line the roads to cheer for her.

She smiles and waves as regally as she can. They are, in part, why she is here today, being crowned as their sovereign. She will do all she can to be better than what they’ve suffered before.

When they arrive, Bellamy, from his horse just beside hers, jumps down to help her dismount. It’s a bit of a process, even though she had deigned to ride side saddle for the occasion.

When the final preparations have been finished and she is allowed in, she processes through the cathedral alone. The nobles, much like the crowds outside, line either side of the aisle, staring at her with interest. They might not love her the way the regular citizens do, but most of them took her side in the very brief takeover. Now they merely want to know how she can benefit them.

She keeps her eyes forward as she walks, looking at none of them.

Bellamy trails behind her somewhere, being given the illustrious job of carrying the crown she will soon wear. Marcus is beside him, holding the orb and scepter.

Some people had balked when she’d announced that Bellamy would be in such an important role, but they had backed down in the face of her ire. He had provided her a throne and helped to deliver them from the tyrant.

Also, it helped that their relationship was now considered an open secret. No one was bothered enough by Bellamy to call for the return of Finn, so they were forced to accept things.

When she reaches the altar, she turns to face the crowd. Marcus comes to stand before her to perform the ritual.

He speaks for a bit, addressing the magnitude of this day for everyone involved. She can hardly bring herself to listen, but manages to keep her chin up and her body still.

Finally, he turns to her, asking “Your Majesty is willing to take the oath?”

“I am willing,” she projects through the space.

“Will you solemnly promise to protect your people from all that you can, acting firstly as a shield to the realm?”

“I solemnly promise so to do.”

“Will you to your power cause law and justice, in mercy, to be executed in all your judgements?”

“I will.”

“And will you swear to stand by your people in times of war, in times of famine, in times of plague, and in times of struggle so that they are never abandoned by their Sovereign?”

“All this I swear to do.”

A page sets a plush pillow of crushed velvet before her, and the Chancellor says, “Your Highness will please kneel.” When she has, he continues, now facing the crowd. “Nobles, gentry, people of Polis — will you have this woman as your Queen?”

As one, the room echoes back a response of _we will._

Marcus anoints her head and palms with holy oil before bidding her to stand again so that she may finally sit upon the throne.

They go through the process of placing the crown upon her head and the scepter and orb in her hands.

(And, yeah, whoever thought through the ceremony obviously wasn’t trying to make it easy, considering her hands had just been covered in oil, but she’s not about to drop any important ceremonial items today of all days).

Having appropriately armored Clarke in the trappings of royalty, Marcus says, “Then by the sacred law vested in me, I crown you Clarke, Queen Regnant of Polis.”

The crowd erupts in applause, which is more than she had hoped for. Above it all, she hears Bellamy chanting “Long live the Queen!”

The others all quickly follow, and the hall is filled with the sound.

***

They feast merrily that night after the nobles have all renewed their oaths to her.

The members of the court dance and laugh and drink while she sits happily at the head table. The feast is the most glorious thing she’s ever seen after such a long day with little time to eat.

As the night drags on, she makes her exit, loudly bidding the players to continue their songs for her guests to enjoy.

Then, less publicly, she drags Bellamy back to her apartments, where she promptly tells the guards outside that they are not to let anyone in for the rest of the night.

As soon as the door is closed, he has her pressed against it, trailing hot kisses up and down her throat.

“Wanted to get me alone, huh?” He smirks. “You know you could’ve had me take you right there at the banquet? Forced them to watch me make you feel so good.”

His hand bunches up the front of her skirts in order to press against her center. She grinds into the heel of his hand, desperate for the pleasure it provides.

“Probably an abuse of power,” she mumbles.

“Mm,” he returns, pressing his lips to hers. “Probably.”

Before she can let herself enjoy things too much, she pushes his hand away.

“Go sit.”

He gives her an odd look before exaggeratedly peering around the room they’re in. Her apartments comprise several rooms, and the outermost is a sort of informal reception room where important guests might be brought to speak with her. Though the room is beautifully decorated, it is sparsely furnished. The only seat in the space is a (slightly smaller) throne. Like all the thrones in the different rooms of the palace, it is only for the sovereign’s use.

“Where would you like me?” 

“Sitting, obviously.” She runs her hand against the bulge in his trousers.

He raises an eyebrow at her. “On the floor, Majesty?”

“No, darling. On the throne, of course.”

He stares at her a moment, but she presses forward until he is backed up against it.

“I don’t think it’s for me.”

“Don’t worry,” she murmurs as she pushes on his shoulder until he sits. “I won’t consider you an occupying force. More like an extension of the furniture. You’re the throne,” she kneels before him briefly in order to free his cock, “and I’d like to sit.”

He smirks wickedly. “Happy to oblige then. Maybe next time you should christen my face as a new throne.”

She stands, tearing at the ties that hold the top of her dress closed. He reaches out to help until her tits spill out.

“So pretty,” he breathes.

Before he can get his hands on her, she pulls up her skirts again so she can straddle him on the seat. He moves to position his cock and she sinks down onto it with a gasp.

“Fuck,” she whimpers as she starts moving. He uses his hands to help guide her hips while his mouth captures one of her nipples. “You were right.”

“I know.” He smirks around the bud before biting down gently. “About what this time?”

“I should’ve ordered everyone to watch you fuck me on the throne.”

He groans into her skin.

“Want them to see you staking your claim on me? Conquering me like you’ve conquered Polis?”

She laughs, grinding her hips against him until they’re both left panting. 

“My love, you’re already mine. I own everything in Polis, but you especially.”

He presses his lips to hers again in a frenzy. His hand finds its way beneath her skirts so his thumb can draw quick, tight circles over her clit that leave her moaning.

Closing her eyes in pleasure, she manages to pant out, “And I’m yours.”

It doesn’t take long after that, between the drag of his thick cock inside her and his concentration on her sensitive clit, before she’s on the edge.

Through gritted teeth, she manages to say, “Don’t pull out.”

His motions stutter in confusion, and it takes a moment before his thumb starts its work again.

“What?”

“Don’t pull out. Cum inside me, Bellamy.”

He tips her chin down from where she’s thrown her head back so she’s looking into his eyes.

“You mean that?”

“Yes,” she groans out, tugging on his hair so she can kiss him. “Please — _fuck_ — please cum in me.”

Just voicing her desire is making her hot, and she shudders at the thought of his cum leaking down her thighs later.

“Is that what you want, Clarke?” His free hand traces over her skin and the fabric of her dress until it reaches her belly. “Want me to put a baby in here? Want to be our gorgeous, glowing, _pregnant_ queen?”

“Yes! Fuck, so much. Please.”

“Okay, baby. Whatever you want. Gonna look so beautiful carrying my child.” His hand rubs over her stomach like he’s already imagining it big and round, and her cunt flutters around him at the thought. “Gonna fill you up every day until your belly is huge and your tits are leaking. And then I’m gonna keep fucking you every day because I won’t be able to keep my hands to myself. You’re gonna look so pretty, baby.”

It’s the sweet words right at the end that send her over, pussy clenching around him until he’s spilling inside her. The only word she knows is his name, repeated in the air like a prayer. She leans forward, tucking her face into his neck and drawing in ragged breaths until finally her nerves calm again.

His hand pets through her hair as she comes back to earth, and she places a kiss lightly against his throat.

When his own breathing has settled, he asks, “Do you need the tea? I’m not sure how serious you were.”

She takes his free hand in both of hers. “I was serious if you were. Eventually I’ll need a baby, and things are fairly settled now.”

His hand squeezes around hers with a little laugh. “Don’t you think there will be questions about a soon-to-be-officially widowed queen having a child?”

“Well, like you said, I’ll be husbandless in the eyes of the people very shortly.” She looks at him through her lashes, suddenly nervous. “And then maybe we could get married. A small ceremony with only the most important people there.”

“You want to get married?” He asks, eyes wide.

“Of course. Sometime soon. You won’t get to be king, of course. Just prince consort. But it’ll give you an actual role, and no one will be able to question your place at my side. And—”

He cuts off her rambling with a kiss. “You don’t have to convince me, Clarke. Of course I want to marry you, with or without the title.”

She looks down again, staring intently as she plays with his fingers.

“How do you feel about the spring?”

“Spring? That’s a bit of a wait, especially if you actually do get pregnant. Do you want me to brew the tea after all?”

She laughs sweetly. “No, not for that. We should get married as soon as Marcus will let us. Hopefully within the month.” She moves to look at him, hand coming up to cup his cheek. “What I meant was: how do you feel about spring for an invasion? You’ll only ever be a Prince of Polis, but I think we could very soon be King and Queen of Tondisi, too.”

His fervent, hungry kiss is answer enough.

***

Eight days after her coronation, there is an announcement that the former King of Polis is dead. Finn, who was kept in prison with all the luxury due to a deposed monarch, had been up late writing letters and fell asleep before blowing out the many candles lighting the room. One tipped over while he slept, and the furnishings quickly caught fire. 

The guards couldn’t save him in time.

It’s a lovely story, with Finn’s heavily burned body to corroborate it — thanks largely to Murphy and a fun bit of controlled arson.

There is no official mourning period observed by anyone, including the Queen. Despite the fact that it is her husband’s death, no one expects his usurper to grieve his passing.

And sure, a few people find the timing questionable, but the astrologer argues that it was merely the will of the gods to show their favor for the new ruler.

Clarke smiles at this. It’s wonderful to be favored by destiny, and better still to have created it herself. Gustus had, all those years ago, foretold that she would have a great and terrible future, and she’s more than lived up to expectations.

She marries Bellamy twelve days following that, with only the most important nobles attending. Raven, Indra, and Diyoza all help her prepare, keeping things considerably more lowkey than they had been for her coronation. Marcus conducts the ceremony again, happily pronouncing the couple husband and wife.

“My lady,” Bellamy teases, leaning in to kiss her.

She laughs against his lips. “My love.”

When they pull apart, she places a crown of twisted, golden branches on his head, beautiful and delicately crafted. His smile as they stare at each other — two rulers joined in marriage — is radiant.

***

It takes three months of happy, blissful marriage before Clarke is ready to tell Bellamy all that happened between her and Finn. It’s not that she didn’t trust him before that — there’s no one in the world she trusts more. It’s only that she’s never wanted to think about it enough to explain.

Bellamy pets her hair and hugs her to him as she talks, giving her the chance to get her scattered thoughts in order.

By the end of the story, though he is clearly angry that he didn’t get to take a few stabs at Finn himself, he holds her and asks her what she needs — what he can do.

His love is enough.

***

When it’s all said and done, Bellamy decides not to invade until early summer of the next year, saying that it’s the best time to destabilize Tondisi based on his years of playing the chess game in his head.

By then, nearly ten months into their marriage, Clarke is heavily pregnant. Against Bellamy’s wishes, she still straps her sword to her side and rides alongside him at the front of their combined forces, though she elects not to actually fight after he begs her not to.

It’s a shame, really. She’s spent years training as a swordswoman, but being six months pregnant doesn’t exactly help her mobility. Still, being there in a leadership capacity beats confinement, so she doesn’t have it in herself to complain.

By the time their daughter is born in the autumn, she is a princess of both Polis and Tondisi. Bellamy and Clarke order for the bells to ring for as long as possible, overjoyed by her tiny hands and tiny nose and tiny, beautiful smile.

Their daughter will never be a pawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was based on a lot of different historical women. Firstly, Isabella the She-Wolf of France, who is the framework for this Clarke, as well as Catherine the Great of Russia. If you thought Clarke's takeover was a little too easy, just know that it's actually happened pretty similar to this at least twice in history. I also used a little Catherine of Aragon for both Clarke and Abby, and Bellamy and Clarke's marriage and rule over two kingdoms is inspired by Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile uniting (most of) Spain. There are probably about ten other historical figures that helped to shape the characters, but they're escaping me at the moment.
> 
> The line about Clarke potentially being a diamond cut with her own dust is a ripoff of the Webster quote from his play the Duchess of Malfi (an AMAZING play that I highly recommend). There's also some Jude Duarte in there if you squint, for people who like to read modern YA.
> 
> I loved writing this fic so much, even when it was dark. I'm a big history person by nature so this felt like a comfortable world to slip into.
> 
> This is also my first longish fic I've completed, as my other two long stories are still in progress. I'm really happy to have reached the end, and I'd be chuffed if you left reviews to let me know what you liked. Even if you're reading this in 2027 or something — I'll still see your review and get a rush of serotonin.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @andiebwrites on twitter if you're so inclined.


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